


Vows Made in Wine

by love_in_mind_palace (mysleepyhead)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Book/Movie Fusion, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Child Abuse, Dubious Consent, Happy Ending, Literary Fusion, M/M, Mystery, Not between Sherlock and John, Plot Twists, Romance, Sexual Abuse, but still let me know if more tagging is needed, i will give warning before chapters when needed, the handmaiden au, victorian au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-01
Updated: 2017-08-27
Packaged: 2018-11-07 17:14:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 59,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11063517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mysleepyhead/pseuds/love_in_mind_palace
Summary: John Watson, a low born young man from the slums of London appears in the farthest corner of country to work as a valet for the young master living in the secluded mansion. Secrets, betrayal, conspiracy. A love blossoming in the most unfortunate circumstances.“I pray you, do not fall in love with me, For I am falser than vows made in wine”- William Shakespeare, As You Like It.





	1. I used to find everything beautiful

**Author's Note:**

> First time dabbling on fully AU fic. The story itself is beautiful and I could not stop imagining John and Sherlock as the protagonists when I saw The Handmaiden recently. I will be mostly loyal to the story line but will make some change of course. Those of you who have seen the movie already or read Sarah Waters' book or have seen the BBC Miniseries already know about the plot. But those who haven't, I request not to see the movie because the story has some intense twists. But it is your choice. The movie is extremely beautiful. Also there will be warnings when needed in the beginning of a chapter. So keep an eye out for that. There will be warnings. Let me know if I need to tag it more clearly. I am still learning.
> 
> Many many thanks to Lou for being the most patience friend and beta in the world. And Thanks Luna for reminding me to write everyday. 
> 
> I hope everyone enjoys. I am putting a lot of effort into this.
> 
> This work is now complete.

Standing in the almost cloud bursting rain, I listen to the policemen marching away in distance; the sludging of their heavy boots fade, the kids of the slum run past me, drenched in rainwater, chasing behind the marching battalion - like always. It was like routine clock work. The children would follow the men for a while, laughing and fighting amongst themselves the whole time. Then the policemen would be aware of the presence of these nuisances behind them and someone from the back would turn around and chase them away. The little devils would run for dear life, all the while giggling like it was the most amusing thing in the world. Be it rain or scorching heat or winter. It's always the same. 

  
  


There are not many things to entertain oneself in this filthy slum; those children found something and at the age of twenty one, I am still waiting to find mine.

  
  


I see Mrs. Hudson‘s face – determined, not spilling out an ounce of the fear she currently is nurturing inside her. She often is too skilled to conceal her emotions, twenty years of knowing her and I think I understand her better than anyone else. She is afraid for me but won’t display that on the outside. I am afraid for myself too. I haven't told her that.

  
  


The rain is falling tirelessly from morning without showing any sign of stopping. My umbrella isn't too big and neither am I. For today Mrs. Hudson ironed the best garments I have; a shirt which is a bit too big for me, which used to be once white but isn't anymore – the arms a little loose and the collar doesn't sit as high as it should, the waistcoat doesn’t fit as expected but the coat, it was my father’s. A small man himself, I had no desire to use his clothing in this lifetime. The memories I have of him are not pleasant at all but this jacket is the only decent one I have. My mother had kept it intact. Sentiment, it makes you cherish even the memory of your abuser. It is one of the worst things.

  
  


My small luggage sits in the threshold, just a suitcase; the small possessions of a poor twenty one year old living in a slum. Standing beside the suitcase is Molly. Poor girl. She has cried her eyes out. Her red rimmed eyes and dark circles don’t suit her cheerful persona. Beside her, Greg paces like an angry lion.

  
  


I carefully close my umbrella and walk up the portico, some of rainwater finds its way onto my hair and the old decaying wood protests under my feet. For twenty one years I have always expected the wood to give up as I took the next step but like a stern soldier devoted to his duty, the wood just kept itself intact. I walk beside Molly and take her hand in mine, the remaining of her tears start to flow. She starts to whimper.   
  


“You poor thing, it’s just a simple task. Don’t fret. It will be alright,” 

 

I try to assure her and maybe myself a little too in the process. 

 

“I will be back before this little one says her first word.” 

 

I brush my hand over the head of the infant she is holding. Her name is Violet, I chose it. 

 

“Uncle will be back before you even say mother and he will bring you dolls and dresses. Anything you wish for.” 

 

I kiss her little head. Her face is peaceful, like everything in the world doesn’t affect her. It really doesn’t, wish I could say the same about myself.

 

I wipe Molly’s tears away with my jacket sleeve.

  
“Smile, don’t make me remember you by just your crying, swollen face. Oh god, what’s that on your shoulder?”

 

She falls for the trick like she always has. This innocent girl, as she turns around to inspect her left shoulder. I place a kiss on her right cheek. She lets out a surprised mix of laughter and sighing. 

 

“You will never change.” 

 

Her eyes crinkle at the corner.   
  


“Take care, little sister – of yourself and of this precious thing.” 

 

I kiss her forehead. 

 

“I will. But promise that you will be safe.”   
  


“I will. I assure you.”

 

Taking my hand from her, I walk over to Greg who had stopped pacing and was standing straight with mournful eyes.

  
  


“It should have been me. I should have gone instead of you. I will not rest until you come back.” 

 

His brown eyes are sad for me. I am going to miss him the most.

  
  


“Calm down brother. As I have repeated over and over, it will be completely alright. You will take good care of our family until I come back, won't you?”

  
  


“You can trust me.” 

 

Greg smiles a small smile.

  
  


“I do. I always have.”

 

Yes, he always has.

  
  


I drag him down for an embrace, short and necessary.

  
  


When we part, I catch a glimpse of a tear in Greg's eyes. This man is too soft for his own good.

  
  


Mrs. Hudson stands beside my abandoned umbrella. Her eyes somehow look a little bit lost, a part of her aubergine gown being drenched in the rain. She isn't paying any attention to it, s he holds both my hands with both of hers.   
  


“Do only as you were promised. And remember what I always say: trust no one.” 

 

I mouth the words with her.   
  


“Keep within your task and you should be excellent. I have faith over you.” 

 

She touches my cheek with her hand.   
  


“And yes, keep this,”

 

She unchains her key pendant and puts it around my neck.

 

My eyes must have widened with surprise. 

  
  


“Don't question. Keep it. God help you don't need it but keep it. Be safe, my child.” 

 

She kisses my hair and wraps me in her warm, motherly embrace. It is a difficulty to unwrap myself from the warmth. My eyes burn a little. I see tears in her eyes too.

I take my umbrella and walk into the blinding drapes of rain again. Mrs. H hands me my luggage.   
  


“Hurry or you will miss the train.”

  
  


I take a last look over the teary faces of my family and turn around. I have never left my home alone in my life. That goes too for travelling to an unknown place.

Balancing my luggage and the umbrella, I walk towards the smoke. I have a train to catch.

  
  


Ignoring the sideways glances from the strangers, I sit in the train, trying to enjoy the nature passing before my eyes. The rain stops after some time but dark clouds still linger in the sky. After almost two hours of journey, the train finally stops at my destination.

  
  


I drag my luggage down and the train leaves the station with a whistle. After I have managed to walk a few steps down the station, a tall, thin figure clad in a suit, stops in front of me.

I look up to see a square jawed, wrinkled face looking back at me.

  
  


“You must be Mr. Watson.” 

 

He asks me in grave voice. His hazel eyes kind and soft in contrast to his voice.   
  


“Yes sir, I am.” 

 

I manage a curt nod as I am suddenly baffled because behind him, at a distance of a few paces, stands the most beautiful horse carriage I have ever seen.

 

“My name is Wilder. I am here to take you to the mansion.”

 

“Thank you, sir.” 

 

I nod again and follow him. As I approach, I understand that the carriage must be the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. The woods are polished so neatly that I can see my reflection in them but the new layer of dust on it shows the long way it has travelled today. I bet a fly would slip on its feet if it tried to sit on the surface. And the horses in front of it are true works of beauty too, their raven skin and mane reflects light in my eyes. They look a little tired, must have been because of the long journey. 

  
  


“Get in.” 

 

Mr. Wilder opens up the door for me and I sit inside. The seats are softer than my bed back at home. I dip down a few inches in the seat. God, this is unbelievable.   
  


“You might want to sleep. We have a long way to go.” 

 

Mr. Wilder mentions.

 

I try to ignore his words for the better half of an hour. I eat the food Mrs. Hudson packed for me and look outside. The view in front of my eyes changes slowly, becomes greener. Less and less people become visible and after a while it just gets tiring. The same array of trees over and over, the same pattern of shadows on the road. So after a while, against my wish, I drift off to sleep.

  
  


I awake with a jerk as our ride comes to a sudden halt. It’s way darker outside than it was when I fell asleep. There is an oil lighted lamp by Mr. Wilder. The inside of the carriage is dark. Maybe I made some incoherent noise while waking up because I soon hear Mr. Wilder's voice.   
  


“Go back to sleep. It’s still a long way to the house. We just entered the estate.”   
  


I hear the sound of a metal gate opening and the horses start running again.

This time I can’t go back to sleep and I thank God that I didn’t because slowly something unveils in front of me and I would curse myself if I missed the beauty. 

 

A mansion appears like something lavish out of a fairy tale. Like in any instant I will see a princess in one of the windows combing her hair against the candle light. 

It is magnificent.

 

When I come down the carriage, I almost suspect my jaw hitting the ground. There standing in the moonlight, is the most beautiful building I have ever seen. I could never imagine that this far away from civilization and people that something like this can exist. 

 

I must have been too immersed in the beauty of the truly heavenly structure before me because someone clears their throat rather sharply near me. I look up to see a kind faced lady standing in front on me.    
  


“Hello, I am Hamish Watson.” 

 

I nod.

 

“Welcome Watson. Come with me.” 

 

She turns away with her lamp and I follow her walking over the pebbled path, the sound of the carriage fades away in distance.

 

 

“I noticed that you were quite engulfed watching the house. It is a true thing of beauty.” 

 

She indicates in front of her.    
  


“Yes Ma’am it is beautiful. I have never seen any house like this in London.”  I say the truth.   
  


“I am quite sure that you haven't. This is a unique mansion. Very old as well. The house is divided into three wings. The front part is the main house designed by a renowned architect. Middle is the annex, which Master Moran has re furnished as a library. He is very fond of books, loves them more than his own life. You will see that. The next part is the servant's quarters. But as you are the young Master‘s valet, you will not live there.”

 

She continues to talk like a rule book.   
  


“You will only take what the young Master offers you and nothing beyond that. I am sure you wouldn't dare, Hamish.”

 

She turns around to face me.   
  


"Your name is Scottish, isn’t it? The English should be James.”   
  


"Yes Ma’am.”  I nod in agreement.   
  


“Also you can call me Mrs. Turner.” 

 

Her kind face shows a hint of a smile and my face mirrors her expression.    
  


We enter the main house.

 

And there comes another jaw dropping moment. When I was comparing this to fairy tale, I wasn’t exaggerating. The inside of the house is what dreams are made of. What dreams can’t even dare to be made of; glass, marble, wood, silver everywhere. It was like walking inside a treasure chest. Every surface is polished and shining. The carpet under my feet sinks with each step. The woods are glossy like they will reflect sunlight. I almost hesitate to step next onto the carpet. My cheap attire is a disgrace for this mansion.   
  


“The young Master’s routine is simple. Taking a walk, riding his horse, spending time in his room and most of the time he is reading for the Master.”   
  


Mrs. Turner starts to take the wooden steps and I follow suit.   
  


“Among the richest people in England, Master Moran is the greatest book lover. And among the greatest book lovers, he is the richest. Remember one thing Watson,”

 

She turns around and lifts up the lantern in her hand, her face suddenly serious.   
  


“You must know your duty. You must know what’s expected from a valet like you. Do you understand my words?”

 

“Yes Ma'am.” 

 

I nod and avert my eyes from the flame of the lantern and her sharp gaze.   
  


“Good.” 

 

She turns around and continues walking.   
  


Crossing a number of corridors and rooms, which at a point I just stopped counting, we stop in front a small wooden door.   
  


“This will be your chamber, just beside the young master’s bedchamber so that you can be there whenever he needs.”   
  


She opens the door and inside the room there is a bed, a small table and a wardrobe. The room is much bigger than my little corner back at home.

I look at the door right in front of me.   
  


“He is in there?” 

 

I whisper.   
  


“Yes and he is sleeping. Don't wake him up.” 

 

She lights a small lantern on my table and then walks out of the room. I get rid of my outfit and change into my old nightshirt. I stand in front of the connecting door for a few minutes and then decide to place my ear against it. 

 

The only sound I hear is of soft breathing and nothing else. The young Master is deep asleep.

I climb into bed and fall asleep even before I can cherish the softness of my new bed.

 

 

  
**

 

 

 

I wake up to the sound of someone screaming like they are being murdered. It takes me a few moments to register my new surroundings. It's still night, looks like midnight.   
  


“Mother!!”   
  


Another shout and it comes from the young Master's chamber. I hesitate for a moment but only a moment and then I open the door.

 

I run hurriedly towards the big bed and by the pale moonlight I see a human figure sitting on it; bent forward, screaming in intervals like he was in pain. I do what I think best. I start to rub his shoulders and back as a sign of comfort and I discover he is shaking like a thin leaf under my palm. Nightmare. It must have been something terrible.

 

“Shh… shh… it will be alright.” 

 

I whisper to the thin human figure. He starts breathing with difficulty and utters as if in great pain, pausing at every word.   
  


“You are… you are not Wiggins. Where is he?”   
  


“He got fired, Sir. I am your new valet.”   
  


“Medicine. On the stand. One drop. In water.”   
  


I run from beside him to do as ordered. One drop of medicine from the glass vial into water and I bring it back to the bed. A thin hand with long fingers emerges from under the covers and snatches the glass from my hand.

 

I can't see the face of the owner of the hand, all covered in disorderly curls. I rub his thin back a bit more while he gulps down the water. He is so fragile under my touch. I can almost feel his spine protruding onto the palm of my hand from under his nightshirt. He breathes with so much struggle that I almost fear that he will pass out at any second. 

 

I continue rubbing his back.

Some agonizing moments pass and I start wondering if I should ring the bell or call upon someone. But the situation ceases eventually. His breathing becomes even and he stops shaking completely.     
  


I take that as my cue to leave but while I try to detach myself at the end of my duty and try to sit up from the bed, I realize the young Master is holding my hand in a tight grip, not intending to let go. He whispers in the softest voice I have ever heard. His voice still croaked.    
  


“Would you... would you please sleep beside me? I am afraid that I will have another nightmare.”   
  


I freeze in place for a moment. It’s not the place of a valet to sleep besides their master. But it is also his duty to obey what his Master says. I was taught to tend upon the desires of the one I am serving. So I agree.   
  


“As you wish.”   
  


I take the glass from his hand and help him lie down. He sleeps with his back towards me. From under the covers I only see his dark curls reflecting the moonlight. He sounds and looks young. I wonder what his face looks like.   
  


“Do you know any lullabies?”   
  


The soft voice asks me again in a whisper after I have settled myself under the covers; keeping a safe distance away from the young Master.

  
“Yes sir, I do.”   
  


“Sing for me. Please.” 

 

He asks like a small child.   
  


“I… all right, I can sing one.”   
  


“Thank you.” 

 

He murmurs, and I start singing an old lullaby my mother taught me to sing. 

  
  


_ Sleep sweet, belovëd one, sleep sweet! _ __  
_ Fold thy white hands, my blossom! _ __  
_ Thy warm limbs in thy lily sheet, _ __  
_ Thy hands upon thy bosom. _ __  
__  
_ Though evil thoughts may walk the dark, _ __  
_ Not one shall near thy chamber; _ __  
_ But shapes divine shall pause to mark, _ _  
_ __ Singing to lutes of amber.

  
  


He smells of the purest blossom. His touch on my hand is soft and delicate but strong. I sing tirelessly until his breathing slows down, his grip on my hand falls loose. Keeping my eye on the creature in front of me, my nose full of an aroma, my heart full of some unexplainable warmth, I fall into blissful slumber. 

 

 

You must be thinking about who I am. Hamish Watson, a poor valet trying to work his way through life. 

 

You couldn’t have guessed it more wrong.   
  


Because I am John. H. Watson. And I am none other but a thief.

 

And I have come here to take what is not mine.


	2. That's because I lived in dirt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks Lou for editing and everything. And Luna for constantly reminding me to write.

I think this is the part of the story where I introduce myself.

 

I am an orphan. Lost my mother when I was a wee thing of just five years old. A famous thief herself, she was never caught for twenty years while performing some of the biggest thefts in London. Once luck failed her and then it was the end. People still whisper in the streets about the execution of Valerie Watson. She left quite a legacy for me and maybe people expect me to fulfil that.

 

I don’t want to talk about my father. I wish he never existed in the first place. He died a painful death and I thank God almighty for that. Yes, I am an orphan with no blood relatives known to me but that doesn't mean I don't have a family. Because I most certainly do.  


After my mother’s death, I was taken in and raised by Mrs. Hudson to be one of the top purveyors of stolen goods. She was very fond of my mother and eventually me. She never let me feel the absence of my mother. I grew up surrounded by wealth which didn’t belong to me but mostly to the rest of London.   
  
At the age of five, I could identify fake coins. At the age of seven, I could name and differentiate all the precious stones. At the age of nine, I learned to pick a pocket in broad daylight. And it's been going on since then. I’ve grown to become a fingersmith. I've never been caught. I grew up with children like me. Working together. Living together. Greg, Molly and the others.

 

Greg took a job as a valet to a wealthy family at a very young age, that opened up new opportunities for all of us and also gave us a steady source of income, which was of dire need.   


Molly worked as a handmaiden but had to give up the work after her marriage to Greg. She dedicated her life to raising their children. The little ones are a source of joy in our lives.

 

This slum is not a place anyone would dream to live in. I dream every night of running from this life. The smoke makes my lungs black. The dirt makes me squirm. I dream of getting far, far away one day. As much I love this family, one day I want to leave this life behind.

 

Mrs. H runs a daycare children's home; our biggest facade to the outside world and it pays most of our rent and expenses and the occasional money Jim grabs from us.

 

 

James Moriarty; better known as Jim, the suave and sleek criminal who enthralls the upper class Londoners with his charm – but on the inside, he is one of the worst people I have ever seen or known. He is a walking, talking human vessel full of sins.

 

But he protects us. Keeps an eye out for us and gives us work – all for his own profit but still, no one tries to bite the hand that feeds.

 

So we don’t but he is not as powerful as he tries to present himself to the outside world. He is lonely. Works alone. But his reputation is what people fear him for. Word in the air is he might have been connected to murders in the past. But nowadays he is all about delicate and intricate works.

 

There is something in his hard, cold, lunatic eyes that terrifies the soul out of people and freezes the blood right through your veins. Everyone is afraid of him.

 

I have always hated him; hated every inch of his skin with my entire existence, hated his voice, his postures and especially the way he loves to mock me. I sometimes wished to wake up in the morning in a world where Jim never existed. But in this story of my life, James Moriarty is important.

 

James Moriarty changed everything without even knowing that he did.

 

  
**

 

 

It was a typical day at our shared home; Molly was busy with her children and the ones from daycare, Mrs. H was doing housework, Greg and I were busy sorting out goods and suddenly the door knocker on the back door moved. The first response from us was jumping up onto our feet and grabbing the nearest weapon we had. That door is a secret one and nobody uses it except for… Jim.

 

He walked in wearing expensive clothes, making prominent sounds with his leather shoes and cane. A clear disguise, albeit a very expensive disguise. I wondered what his business was.

 

Silently, Jim hung his coat on the coat stand, removed his top hat and turned around to face me. A sly smile hanging from his lips, his gaze fixated on me. Then his gaze moved towards Molly who twisted her face in utter disgust. I did not need to watch Greg's face to know that he was rolling his eyes behind me.

  


Jim let out a false sigh and sat on the dining table. He poured himself a glass of ale from the decanter, then he straightened his suit and took a sip from the glass.  


“Do you know why I am here today?" He raised his eyebrows.  "I am here to tell you a story but I need your attention, of all of you.”

 

He glanced at the whole room, the eyes of every individual fixated on him. His smug smile widened and once again his gaze was on me. He flashed his teeth and winked.

“Shall I begin?”

 

He took another sip from the glass and raised his eyebrow, this time looking at Mrs. Hudson.

 

“Of course, we can hardly contain ourselves. We are all dying to hear your story.”

 

She smiled her most false smile in return.  


It was unclear if Jim understood the sarcasm in her voice or just chose to ignore it.   


“This story is about a bastard.”

 

He started in a dramatic voice, like always.  


“Not your life story again. I think we’ve had enough of that.”

 

I heard Greg mutter under his breath, the rest of the room tried to suppress a chuckle. Making fun of Jim was one of Greg's life missions. It amused me and scared me as well.

 

 

“I SAID BE ATTENTIVE!!”

 

Jim stood up screaming and threw the glass at the wall. The glass hit the wall with perfect precision and scattered into glittering pieces and we all saw a glimpse of the man we fear; the lunatic people are afraid of.

 

His voice went suddenly normal again; like a magic spell, like the person screaming and breaking a glass mere seconds ago was not him but someone else altogether.

 

“Don't make me do that…..again.”

 

Jim sat down on a chair when he became sure that he had the utmost attention of the whole room.

 

“So where was I? Oh yes, bastard. This bastard is named Colonel Sebastian Moran. As you all understand from the name, he worked for Her Majesty's Royal Army. But after his marriage, he took an early retirement and moved to the country. His wife died later.

 

Since then, he has been living quite an isolated life away from the city, in the calm of the country. If you think he loved his wife and her death devastated him, that's where you’d be wrong,”

 

Jim snatched a different glass and poured himself another serving of ale.  


“After her death, this bastard got his hand on a huge mansion and an unmeasurable amount of wealth. He himself might have come from a poor family but his wife, she was such a beauty. She was noble born. Rumor was she went mad at the end of her life. Poor woman. I think he might have had something to do with the death of his wife. But… um… not really my concern.”

 

The room was silent.

 

“Now, what did he do with all the wealth? He collected books. Manuscripts – rare ones. But he is greedy, greedier than me if you ask. So besides the book colllection, he started something else underneath. Forgery! This cunning bastard, he started with restoring old books and selling them to wealthy buyers. But he eventually found out that he could earn more if he moved into forgery. Old books lose their value even if one page is missing from it. So the bastard decided to fool buyers. But now he needs someone, someone who can make believable manuscripts and illustrations to add to the books; so intricately that not even an art dealer can catch the forgery.”

 

“That's genius.”

 

I murmured.

 

“Yes, very much genius indeed. That's where I come in, Count Richard Brooke.”

 

Jim stood up and took a bow.

 

“Yes, this noble born gentleman has unparalleled talent in art forgery! I mesmerize him with my gentle manner and knowledge of literature and he confides in me. I know all the secrets of this bastard.”  


Greg snorted at the mention of gentle manner.  


“So you want to blackmail him?”

 

Mrs. H asked skeptically.

 

 

“No, because where is the fun in that?”

 

Jim's eyes sparkled and I knew in an instant there must be something else.

 

“Now the thing I haven't mentioned yet is the most important thing in the whole matter. It is the son of the colonel's sister-in-law.”  


“What is the matter with him?”

 

Molly chimed in.

 

“He is the whole matter. The wealth I am talking about belongs to him, actually. Only a very small portion of it belonged to Moran’s wife. Moran is more like a caretaker of the wealth now. But the orphaned young man is oblivious to everything around him. He just lives in his own world and Moran just lets him. He intends to keep him that way for the rest of his life. He is like his treasure chest and he does everything to keep the young Master in his own corner. The young man knows nothing about the outside world, an innocent eighteen year old boy trapped inside the body of a man. It's a real tragedy when you think about it.

 

This is where the conspiracy starts, the plan to take all that wealth into my grasp.”

 

“How?”

 

Everyone in the room asked in unison.

 

“I am going to tell him about the outside world; the beauty of it, the beauty of freedom and the ethereal beauty of women who live outside of his world, especially one woman in particular.”  


“What woman?” I asked tentatively.

 

“ _The_ Woman.”

 

He looked at me with a smile which didn't reach his eyes.

 

And that particular term “The Woman” meant only one person.

 

“Irene Adler?”

 

The woman who has the London elites on their knees and at her feet and still lives a life in secrecy with only her handmaiden. She took no man in her life but half of London are willing to sell everything to spend an hour with her.

 

“Yes, Irene. She will play the role of my sister Irene Brooke. I am going to need him to fall in love with her which should be an easy task. He hasn't come into contact with any woman ‘till now. At any given opportunity he will be willing to be seduced by a cow. He must be starving.”

 

Jim broke into laughter at his own joke. No one laughed with him.

 

“Then he will be flapping his wings like a caged bird to run from that house and will want to marry Irene to gain his freedom. So we will help him elope. There will be a marriage but then something terrible will happen! The young Master will start to show signs of mental illness; courtesy to my own supply of opium and sadly, mental illness is hereditary.

 

Remember his aunt? He will end up in an asylum and eventually will die. Thanks to my resources, Irene will inherit the wealth and then she will hand it over to me. Problem solved. Old Sebastian will probably die of heartbreak from losing all that wealth.”

 

Jim shook his head in mock sadness.

 

“What’s Irene’s deal? Why will she hand over the wealth to you? I mean she can easily deny it, can't she?”

 

Molly asked.

 

“She owes me a favour, quite a big one actually.”

 

“Then why are you telling this to us? Sounds like you have sorted it out yourselves.”

 

Mrs. Hudson asks the question all of us had in mind.

 

“Yes, yes I am coming to that point,”

 

Jim brushed his suit and stood straight.  


“My work with Moran doesn't let me spend much time with the young man so I need someone to keep a close eye on him, be near him, plant the seed of the marriage in his brain. Water it. Nourish it. Talk about the beauty of Irene over and over. How she is the perfect match for him. Encourage him. He will be hopelessly in love so that when he meets her, all he will want is to fall to his knees and then bam!” Jim clapped his hands loudly.

 

“And that someone is going to be you. You are going to be his valet; the closest any person can get to him. His current valet is going to lose his job in exactly three days.”

 

I realized belatedly that Jim was pointing his finger at me. My heart skipped a beat for no reason.

 

“Yes Johnny boy. You are my ace of spades.”

 

“But I have experience as a valet. I have been doing this for the last five years professionally. I think I would be a better choice in this that only seems logical.”

 

Lestrade said in a surprised tone. The same question had crossed my mind too.

 

“No, you won’t work. John is closer in age to him. It will be easier for him to befriend the young man. He is very closeted. It will take some time to open him up. John has a certain way of doing that I’ve noticed; be it women or men.”

 

Jim looked at me with a sly smile. My face became a bit flamed but Jim made no comment and continued like he did not notice me.

 

“But Greg, you have one duty. Prepare him. Make him a proper valet. You have one week.”

 

“One week? Only one?” Greg whined. “Also what do we get out of it?”

 

“Half of the total wealth, which will be thousands of pounds and John gets all the valuables of the young Master.”

 

I don’t know what possessed me at that time but I uttered something which might have been unexpected from me because the whole room raised their eyebrows.

 

“On top of that, I want ten percent of my own.”

 

There was a pin drop silence in the room. Jim studied me with cold eyes for some moments then slowly a smile crept up onto his lips.

 

“Agreed, Johnny boy, ten percent of your own, that's quite a fortune you are going to make there. You leave on next Monday, John. I don’t think that I have to remind you to do your best. Goodbye Mrs. Hudson, always a pleasure doing business with you.”

 

Jim started to put on his coat and hat. I had to fulfil a curiosity within me. So I went near him and asked.

 

“What’s his name?”

 

“Who?”

 

Jim looked up with his brow furrowed, as if it was very much annoying.

 

“The young Master, what's his name?”

 

“Oh, Master William Scott.”

 

He rolled the name under his tongue.   


 

William. What a beautiful name.

 

Jim winked at me and then with a swirl of his coat and nod of his head, he was gone.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hit me up at [tumblr](http://love-in-mind-palace.tumblr.com)  
> And yeah comments and kudos are very much appreciated in this house. Update will be on next Thursday as usual.


	3. But the truth is, I never saw beauty before you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the thanks to Lou and Luna and you guys who has subscribed and reading the fic. A little update. From next week, I will post two chapters each week. On Tuesday and Saturday .

It must have rained at night. When I wake up in the morning, the trees by the window are dripping water and the young Master is still asleep. Only his dark curls and peek of a pale shoulder is visible from under the covers. He is sleeping like a child with his face buried in the pillow.

 

I suddenly have a strong urge to go around the bed and see how he looks, I spent a whole night besides him without seeing his face once but that would be breaching my barrier. Not that it means much to me. I am here to literally send him to his death and make my fortune. I am neither here to stay forever nor feel pity for him but still something inside me stops me. The sky is still cloudy, I excuse myself silently with steps like a cat, like the one I mastered from when I was six.

 

Mrs. Turner said last night that the meals will be served at the servant's quarters. I should have been there by now.

 

I look at the room in the broad daylight; if a room like this belonged to me, I could spend the rest of my life here.

 

I find a bundle of clothes folded neatly on my bed stand. They were there last night as well. I unfold them to find a set of new clothes, more expensive than anything I have put on in my lifetime. The cotton of the shirt feels like silk to me, the waistcoat fits like it was tailor made for me and the pair of trousers are so comfortable that after putting them on it feels like I am wearing nothing. Oh God, how would it feel like to always have expensive things? I envy that young man sleeping in the next room. Seems like he never has even seen what dirt looks like.

 

Unfair, too unfair. Here I am deprived of everything and he doesn't even try but has all. At least I am here to set things straight. I already envy him too much, that is gonna be quite helpful; from envy comes hate, the more I hate the easier it will be for me to do my work and send him to his misfortune.

  


The servant quarters has a bath to my absolute pleasure and after a fresh bath and new clothes I feel quite in sync with the rest of the servants. An odd bunch they are; Anderson is the snarky stable boy who talks in a nosy voice and is quite prone to gossip and Stamford is a quiet man and similar to my age, I find him comforting enough to talk with.

 

“So you are Watson, Master Scott’s new valet? I am Mike Stamford. I work in the main house.”

 

“I am Hamish Watson.”

 

I smile fondly at him.

 

“You look friendlier than Wiggins; he was quite reserved if you ask.”

 

Mike smiles.

 

“Well, tending to Master Scott all the time will make you mad eventually. I don't blame him, Master is known to throw a tantrum quite often. Protect yourself.”

 

Anderson sneers from other side of the breakfast table.

 

“I guess he is destined to go mad himself. Just like his aunt.”

 

He puts his concentration back to the food on his plate. I do not ask further. Instead I go back to my conversation with Stamford, trying to extract as much knowledge as possible about the young Master.

 

 

**

 

 

Well, isn't that most convenient?

  


It turns out that the rest of the servants were not that pleasant because after breakfast when I go back to retrieve my shoes, there is only one of the pair sitting on the portico of the servant's house. Mrs. Turner is standing in the rain with a grim face and an umbrella over her head. I search for the shoe once again but it turns out to be fruitless. There is a soft murmur behind me and when I turn around, several heads disappear from the door.

  


“Fuck!”

 

I mutter under my breath at a safe distance from Mrs. Turner. Going without one shoe will be a heck of a first impression on my first day. Damn this!

  


Mrs. Turner seems quite at unrest so I continue as I am; on one foot wearing my old leather shoe and the other one just the sock trying to not touch the ground as much as possible. With me, I carry a letter in my pocket that Jim wrote for me – a recommendation letter from my previous employer, Lord Dunham (who doesn’t actually exist).

  


She takes me to the young Master’s room and opens the ornate wooden door. I see the young man standing by the window, his back to us. I see the long black coat and the blue silk scarf peeking at his throat. He turns at the sound of us entering. Before I could get a glance at him Mrs. Turner clears her throat. I look at her to see her motioning me to bow my head down.

 

Yes of course, that’s customary.

 

I bow my head and see the shadow in the room move.

 

“Come closer.”  A voice orders.

 

This voice only bears a shadow of the scared one I heard last night. This voice is something I have never heard in my life. Still with my eyes on the floor, the voice reminds me of the stolen gold I used to melt: rich, expensive and soothing. Should I even feel like this inside? It’s just a voice, for Christ’s sake.  


“Your name?”

 

Good lord. I swear my breath hitches and my heart skips a beat. The urge to look at him becomes too intense. I sang him to sleep last night and I still don’t know what he looks like except for his head full of curls.   


“H-hamish Watson, Sir.”

 

I stutter. Why am I stuttering?

 

“I believe you have something for me, Watson?”

 

My name on his tongue sounds like honey to my ears. I extend my hand with the letter and the pale hand covered by a dark coat, with a peek of a silk shirt underneath, extends to take it from me.

 

And at last, I look at him.

 

And God Almighty in heaven.

 

For a few moments it seems like I have gone blind or the world around me has darkened and there is only one luminous source, his face – Master Scott’s.  


Jim told me everything but never mentioned or warned me of this one thing, of how breathtakingly beautiful he is.

 

Beautiful does not do justice to the face standing taller in front of me. It reminds me of the marble statuettes in front of rich houses in London but quite not like that.

 

His chiseled jaw and his high cheekbones are unlike anything I have ever seen. His perfect mouth; almost like a woman's, like two rose petals, do they feel as soft as they look? I have never seen any woman as beautiful as him, let alone any man. I realize my breathing has become heavy. While he opens the letter I continue to look at his face like I am seeing the beauty of the moon for the first time.

 

This is it, I have never seen anything this beautiful in my entire life.

 

His skin is really like the moonlight, glowing on its own. I have a feeling that my mouth must have been obscenely open but in that moment I don’t care. Dark eyelashes fall over pale skin as he opens the letter with his head down. I still don’t know how his eyes look.

  


The letter still half open in his hand, he looks upon at me and I die. Just die.

 

What is that colour called? Seawater? Pale blue? My death?

I have never seen eyes of that colour and I am sure it would not suit anyone except him.

 

“Are you sure about this, Watson?” He asks me. Slow and calm.

 

“Pardon me, Sir?”

 

My voice is choking. Damn it.

 

“This place, are you sure about living here? Sunlight does not dare to enter here. Uncle says sunlight is bad for the books. Sometimes it never stops raining. Are you sure you are going to like it here?”

 

The saddest little smile hangs on his lips.

 

The way his mouth wraps around my name makes me dizzy. Why is this happening? I am here to take his fortune away, not to worship him. But five minutes in front of him and I am no longer sure of my intentions.

 

“Yes Sir. I am sure I will like it here.”  I nod and say.

 

“Mrs. Turner. You can go now.”  


I hear a murmur and the rustle of her gown as Mrs. Turner takes her leave.

I fix my gaze on the leather shoes and the hem of his trousers in front of me and I feel a pair of eyes looking at me.

 

“Will you read this letter aloud for me please? I have been reading since the morning. I have a headache.”

 

His hand touches my finger as he gives me back the letter and the other hand clutches his temple as he makes a painful face. He walks to the nearest chair and sits, motioning with his hand at me to read.  


My heart sinks down and I take several gulps.

I never expected this situation. It is scary because heaven knows I can’t read.

 

“Hahaha!”

 

I roll into fake laughter. In an attempt to escape.

Master Scott raises one eyebrow

 

“Oh Lord, my former employer is so kind, he wrote so many good words about me. I can’t read that myself, Sir. That would be highly inappropriate.” I start to fold the letter gleefully.

 

“I did not request you, Watson. I ordered you to read the letter.”

 

His voice suddenly goes a little cold but not cruel and I reopen the letter with trembling hands. I don’t know any of the symbols in front of me.

 

I have faked so many things in the past. Would faking to read be much harder? I decide to fake read.  


 

“Dear Master Scott, I heard from Count Brooke that you are in dire need of a new valet. So I humbly recommend Watson to you... I... I...”

 

I am able to remember only the parts Moriarty read aloud for me. I inevitably start to stutter. My face must have gone red. I stop abruptly and consider things for a few moments. In the end, I decide to tell the truth, it would not do me any harm, this little truth.

  


“I cannot read, Sir.”

 

I say at last.

 

His eyes flash open and his gaze upon me becomes intense.

 

“Is that so?”

 

He walks to what looks like a reading table with books and quills and picks up a piece of paper, writes something on it and brings it in front of me.

 

“This is your name. You cannot read it?”

 

“No, Sir.”

 

My head hangs down in shame.

 

“Look at me.”

 

His voice softens and I swear my heart rate becomes faster.

 

I look at his eyes to see no coldness but the softest warmth, a whole sea looking back at me.

 

“You can steal from me, even swear in front of me but there is only one thing I want from you. Never lie to me Watson.”

  
“Absolutely, Sir.”

 

I keep a promise which I want to keep but I am unable.

  
“Excellent.”

 

He smiles with his teeth flashing and I see the child behind the expensive attire.  


He takes the letter back from my hand and my eyes fall upon a beautiful painting of a woman on the wall. I must have looked at it for quite a long time.

 

“Isn’t she beautiful? She is my mother. People say I quite look like her. I don’t think so, my face is too thin, isn’t it?”

 

What should I answer to that? No, it isn’t? You are more beautiful than your mother. You are the most exquisite thing I’ve ever laid my eyes on? That I slightly regret taking this task upon my hands? That I have seen you for just some minutes and you are already playing with my head?

 

“No Sir, you are quite handsome yourself.”

 

I say and realize my face is heated.  


“As you say.” He chuckles.

 

“I have never seen anyone more beautiful than her.” He looks at the painting again and sighs.

 

I remember Moriarty’s words.

 

_Make him fall in love with her. Weave the idea with every chance you get._

 

  
“I have seen someone, not more beautiful than her but still as beautiful.”

 

“Who would that be?”

 

“Lady Irene, Count Brooke’s sister. Her beauty is renowned in London.”

 

“I see.”

 

He goes silent for a moment and then his gaze falls upon the state of my feet.

 

“What happened to your shoes?”

 

“Um… I could not find the other one from this morning.”

 

He lets out an exasperated sigh.

 

“Come with me.”

 

I follow him through the magnificent room to an adjacent room. He stops in front of a mahogany wardrobe and opens the heavy doors. In there lies hundreds of shoes. Their leather polished enough I could see my face in them. My eyes go wide. I have seen my fair share of expensive shoes during my thefts but this... this is magnificent. These are incomparable.

  


“I have never been out of this house since I came here after my father’s death. Since I was five years old…when you think about it, it’s too long.”

 

He sighs softly again and something tugs at my heartstrings. This caged bird.  


“Any one pair from this row should fit you.”

 

He waves to a row at my waist level.

 

“I outgrew them. Those might fit you perfectly. You have smaller feet than mine.”

 

I choose the pair which looks the least expensive, which in fact costs more than all my possessions taken twice. Maybe thrice.

 

“You know Watson; they say ‘with a new shoe, even the worst path feels like a walk over roses.’”

 

He looks at me while I put on the shoes, like he is admiring them on my feet. They fit like they were made for me, the insides of them soft, warm and velvety.

 

“Good. Now come here.”

 

I follow him again in front of a row of glove drawers and open them one by one. He chooses a dark brown pair and I proceed to put each on his hand.

 

“It is forbidden in this house to touch a book without your gloves on. In my opinion, that touch is not even a touch. What do you think, Watson? Is touching with a barrier on, still considered a touch?”

 

“No Sir, it is not.”

 

I say as I smooth the gloves over his slender fingers. Damn. They are so delicate.

 

“It is still raining. Come collect me at the library when the clock bell ring four times. You don’t need to accompany me now.”  


He walks through the open door, leaving a whiff of fragrance behind. I stand in there for a moment. A few seconds pass and in his absence, my nature kicks in.

 

I walk through the closet feeling all the satins and silks between my fingers, all the velvets and coats. One drawer is full of rings, stickpins and cufflinks – all precious stones and gold. Sparkling and shiny. All of it is going to be mine. Shouldn't I be delighted? Then why am I less delighted than I should have been?

 

Suddenly, I lose interest in everything. I cannot explain why but I spend the rest of my time sitting on a chair and looking at the rain out the window.

 

  
**

 

 

The library looks like a literal cage with books closing in from every side. I open the door and take two steps but a sudden scream runs a shiver through my veins and stops me in my tracks.

 

“Don’t cross the sword!”

 

A male voice, older, not the young Master’s – Master Moran says.

  


An older man with white hair, a square jawline and quite a terrifying face looks at me like he would burn my soul.

 

I look down to see a wooden sword engraved on the floor.

 

“That sword is your limit. Who is this imbecile, William?”

 

He turns his face towards Master Scott who looks terrified all of a sudden.

 

“He is my new valet, Uncle. From London.” He says in a whisper.

 

“I don't care if he is from the queen's palace. He is your responsibility. So it is your duty to tell him what to do and what not. Tell him his limits!”

 

“Yes, Uncle.”

 

Master Moran wipes the nib of the pen on his own tongue and goes back to work. I see his tongue, black like the ink itself. I wonder if his insides are black too?  


Master Scott looks at me and motions with his eyes to wait. A little smile on his lips, I take a step back and do as I am told. I find the situation quite amusing.

  


After a few minutes he stands up and carefully puts the books and papers aside. Then asks in a small voice.

 

“Excuse me, Uncle.”

 

He nods his head to Master Moran who dismisses him with a motion of his hand.

  


We walk down the hallway and walk out of the library together. As we cross the area of the library we burst into laughter together, both giggling like children.

 

“He is always like that. Don’t mind anything of his words.”

 

He says when our laughter ceases.

 

“I most certainly will not, Sir.”

 

“I was thinking about a walk in the garden.” He murmurs.

 

“I will accompany you then.”

 

“No need for that. I have changed my mind.” He looks at me with an unreadable smile. “What do you think about the violin?”

 

“The violin, Sir?”

 

“I like to play the violin when I am feeling it, which is now.”

 

“I can’t say I will be appalled by that, Sir. I love good music.”

 

“Excellent. You will do.”

  


Inside his room, when he picks up the instrument and plays the first tune I have goosebumps all around and over my skin. The way his eyes close and he loses himself in the music, I cannot take my eyes off him; a beauty making beauty. I do not know the name of the music, I do not know what it means but I see in his closed eyelids that to him it is something. The little frown in his forehead tells me how much he loves the music. Suddenly I start to question my decision of taking up this chore.

 

I might have been crying when the music ends. He walks over to me and offers me his handkerchief. It smells like lavender, the rainwater and himself.

  


He is charming. Not arrogant like I imagined. Not like anyone I ever saw. He walks into the room and and it gets brighter each time. He talks and I get lost into his words. His smile makes me question why I am even here. I am trying to hate him but he is making it difficult.

 

For the next few days, I forget completely about Moriarty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter next Tuesday. And you know how much I love comments. Thanks again for reading.


	4. Just as the pretty rose

“Tomorrow, I will begin to teach you how to read.”

 

He says as he turns to me one night with a determined face. Eyes sharp and piercing even in the pale moonlight.

 

Yes, I have been sleeping in his bed every night. After a quite traumatic incident of another nightmare, we came to the mutual decision that the most useful solution was for me to sleep beside him. I suggested the floor, as I should as a servant but he insisted on the bed.

 

This arrangement has been simultaneously good and bad for me; good because I want to be near him all the time and this is the most perfect way - most mornings, I wake up to find him fisting my nightshirt in a tight grip and bad because my desire for him has started to exceed its bounds into carnal fantasies and passionate thoughts.

 

This is not new, I have had desires for men before but this, this is something I can’t quite describe. He is ruining me.

 

I wake up in the middle of the night some days to sit up and look at his beautiful face. Moon light makes it soft like the clouds, softening his ever sharp cheekbones. His eyeballs moving under his eyelids. Intense dreams? I wonder what he dreams about, his slightly open mouth is inviting.

 

What will happen if I touch those lips with my own? I can picture it. He will wake up, look at me with a disgusted face. He will hate me, kick me out of this dream I am living in and I will lose the opportunity to be near him.

 

I follow him everywhere like a dog. I help him dress, not that he really needs me. He knows what to wear with what but still I help him put on his jacket, adjust his collar. I wait for him in the porch when he is in the library, stand beside the fences when he majestically rides his horse in the yard.

 

I eat with him, sleep besides him, wake up with him, listen to him playing his violin, listen to him giggling at my stupidity of not knowing about how there are over two hundred distinguishable types of tobacco ash. I look at him while he talks about the variety of butterflies in the garden or how easy it is to make gunpowder. I am quite sure the adoration becomes too apparent in my eyes but I cannot help it.

 

That’s what my days have been reduced to. My sole purpose is to be near him. I don’t care about my task. I don’t want wealth. I want him. Just him. How many days have I spent here? I don’t know. I have stopped counting.

 

“Is that really necessary?”

 

I ask back, casting my face into being visually disappointed but actually not.

 

“Yes it is. It is of dire need.”

 

He chuckles softly and lifts his hand. Then to my great surprise, he touches my lips.

 

“I need you to read just like you talk, fluent, brutal… and the way I like.”

 

His fingertips brush over my lips for a moment then he draws his hand back and closes his eyes.

 

“Sleep well, Watson. Lessons will start in the morning. I will not listen to any excuses.”

 

I look at his closed eyelids, trying to force my mind under control.

 

Sleep? He is telling me to sleep after he touched my lips with his hand. After he made me aware of the fire I had no idea I had inside me?

 

Does he even know the meaning of this kind of touch? Does he even know how intimate that was? He doesn’t, obviously. He is practically a child in mind. All he found in me is a friend. And I am disrespecting that.

 

But what he does runs pulses through my veins and I don't know what to do. I feel guilty because I know I should not want him like this. This is not my place. This is not the situation. But I do. Knowing perfectly well that he will never want a man that way. Especially me. There is a certain word for what I feel for him but I am terrified to think about it.

 

When I turn my back to him, there is a painful warmth in between my legs. The thing I have tried to ignore repeatedly since coming here, the evidence of my desire for him. I wish I could stop this from happening but thank god that he will never know. I can survive if he does not love me but if he hates me, I can not.

 

The irony is, he will hate me the most someday.

 

 

**

 

He says I am a fast learner and he seems very delighted about that. His eyes glint with happiness when I recognize the letters. The alphabet takes me only two days to learn. It would take less if someone else was my teacher. Not that I am complaining about his ability to teach; he is an excellent guide... It’s him who is distracting.

 

His mere presence puts a spell upon me. When he leans behind me to grip my hands and guide me through the writing process, I forget the alphabet, forget about the world surrounding us. It’s just me and him and his hands over my own. His pale, delicate fingers without a barrier, over my sun tanned ones.

 

“Why don’t you wear gloves while touching these books?”

 

I asked him on the first day.

 

“I told you before, Watson. Touching with a barrier on is not a touch and I wish to touch these books properly.”

 

He turned the pages of a book carefully while continuing to talk, eyes scanning the book and then he suddenly looked up and said “I wish to touch you without a barrier,”

 

He took a small pause and continued, “that’s how a proper teaching should be done.”

 

And went back to reading his book. Like the words he just uttered were something you would say casually to a servant.

 

I shivered at the words. And might have closed my eyes.

 

I wish he knew what he meant, what his words did to me but I know he doesn’t. No one taught him things before this. No one said what is the difference between being close and intimacy. He says the words from the depth of his heart and I know that I should take them superficially. But I cannot. I take them for real. I nurture the false idea inside me that he has feelings for me.

 

How can he? He is a beautiful man just waiting to fall in love with a woman. I am just his lowly servant who helps him to pass his time leisurely. I live inside my own head creating a castle in the sand, waiting to be washed away in an instant.

 

**

 

I watch him on his horse. Running around the yard like a prince out of a fairy tale. His curls flying and bouncing in the wind. His face glowing in the sun. He smiles at me from over the horse. Absurd thoughts crowd my mind. What if I get on that horse and take him somewhere far away? Away from all the conspiracy, away from everything. I will not mind if he does not love me back. Just a place at his feet is all I want.

 

“Let’s get back, it might rain.”

 

I realize sometime in the past moments while I was in my thoughts that he had gotten off his horse and approached me. Anderson leads the horse away while we walk back to his room.

 

I start to take his coat off as we arrive inside and realize he is trying to hide his left palm away from me in a very subtle way.

 

“What are you trying to hide?”

 

I grip his hand and try to turn it over to take a good look at the palm. He struggles feebly for some time but I win at last. I am stronger than him anyway despite being shorter. Might have put a little too much pressure on his wrists, I feel slightly bad inside but that will be my secondary concern. First is the reddened area of his palm.

 

“How did this happen?”

 

I look up at him and see that he is biting his lip. A gesture he does when he is reluctant to say something or when facing an inevitable discussion that he finds unpleasant to talk about, which mostly concerns his eating habit. The boy eats like a bird.

 

“That’s from the new horse rein.”

 

He smiles like the child he is and I cannot even get angry towards him.

 

I drag him to his bed and start to tend to the wound. He hisses when I clean it with some alcohol.

 

“Why were you hiding it? That’s stupid. I would have seen it anyway.”

 

I say, applying ointment to his hand.

 

“I did not want to get you upset.” He says slowly.

 

“So, you think about my well being then?”

 

I complete tying up the wound and look at him. His pale eyes look a little hurt. Did I say something inappropriate?

 

“Do I think about your well being… Is that even a question, Watson?”

 

I know what he means. Of course he does. As much as a man does for his closest servant. One he considers somewhat of a friend. He of course wishes no harm upon me but the little worshipper inside me gets overwhelmed that he cares.

 

“I guess it is not.”

 

I don’t even dare to look at him. Maybe my eyes are pouring out something which I should not have for him? Better conceal it.

 

 

**

 

 

“Watson, we will read a bit today. Wrong, you will read. I will listen and provide help.”

 

One morning he hands me a book with a page open in front of me.

 

“Will it not be a little too much? I am still a learner and this looks like a hard book.”

 

I protest because it really does.

 

“I am not requesting you, Watson. I am ordering you. Read it. Aloud.”

 

He sits back in his chair and closes his eyes.

 

I start to read from the line first on the page. With great difficulty and slowness as I clearly anticipated.

 

**_The pulse and passion of youth were in him, but he was becoming self-conscious. It was delightful to watch him. With his beautiful face, and his beautiful soul, he was a thing to wonder at. It was no matter how it all ended, or was destined to end. He was like one of those gracious figures in a pageant or a play, whose joys seem to be remote from one, but whose sorrows stir one’s sense of beauty, and whose wounds are like red roses._ **

What is this book? What is this? Every sentence speaks of him. Every word is like the surface of his skin. It is him. It is about him. I don’t know how this will end either but he and his beauty. The whole of his existence. I get disoriented every moment because of it.

 

I must have stopped reading at some point. I had to. The open curtains invite the sun right onto his handsome face. His eyelids are closed, fingers steepled under chin. What did it say in the book?

 

**_It was delightful to watch him. With his beautiful face, and his beautiful soul, he was a thing to wonder at._ **

 

Yes he is. He is my beautiful thing… He doesn’t know, probably never will. But he is mine.

 

His eyes flash open.

 

“Why did you stop reading?” His brows furrow.

 

“Umm… This… This passage.” I stutter.

 

“You were reading perfectly as far as I could tell.”

 

He smiles a little, for my encouragement I assume.

 

“It’s nothing.”

 

I brush away the thoughts and try to go back where I left but his hand falls upon mine. Soft petals on my hard fingers.

 

“What is it, Watson?” He asks me softly. How do I refuse him?

 

I don’t know what possessed me at that moment or how I become that daring but I cannot hide it anymore. This will not hurt, this little honesty. Or maybe it will.

 

“This is how I see you. The way it says in here. You are so beautiful.”

 

I utter at last. And feel my cheeks getting heated.

 

With my head down, I don’t have the ability to look at him because he will not look back at me in the way I want. And that will hurt me the most.

 

He removes his hand from mine and stands up abruptly. Turns his face away from me and walks towards the door. His long coat swishes behind him.

 

I panic. This is it. I crossed my limit. I should not have said that. That is not what a man should tell another man. Certainly not the one he serves. There is a bold line between a man and his master. I crossed that like the fool I am.

 

“I am sorry.”

 

I almost scream as I see him approaching the door.

 

“Forgive me.”

 

“You did nothing to ask forgiveness for, Watson.”

 

And he walks out of the door like a gust of wind.

 

“Don’t come after me.”

 

His voice comes from at a distance.

 

I sit on the floor for the rest of the morning. Cursing and hating myself because apparently I most certainly lost the little bit of affection he had for me. The books look like curses. The words mock me.

 

Disrespectful John. Very, very disrespectful.

 

 

**

 

I go to the servant quarters to spend the rest of my day, idly talking with the others.

 

As the young Master seemed very unwelcome of my presence, his library time passes and I still keep myself distant. But my mind doesn’t leave his side. I do not pay attention to Stamford’s words while he talks about the special kind of magnolia that blooms in the garden only once in three years.

 

What is he doing now? Changing his clothes alone? Reading poetry? Maybe he does not even care about where I am right now.

 

“Master Scott is asking for you. What are you doing here, anyway?”

 

A nasally voice says from behind - Anderson.

 

I take my leave and walk towards his chamber with a frantically beating heart. I did not do my duties for most of the day and that is unforgivable. Is he going to tell me to go back to London? What will happen to me? Jim is going to kill me. Or maybe I will kill myself.

 

But as the eccentric human being he is, he surprises me.

 

“Watson!”

 

He almost screams. His face all smiling and glowing. All the fear in me evaporates in a moment. He does not seem angry or upset at all.

 

“Yes, sir?”

 

I give a small bow.

 

“Where have you been?”

 

He comes closer and I can smell him. The perspiration that he gained during his horse ride. The heat radiating of his skin. The beautiful aroma of his cologne underneath. Intoxicating. His cheeks are flushed and there’s a thin patina of sweat over his face and his hands from where he rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt. Curls pasted on his forehead. He looks desirable. Too desirable.

 

“I… Uhm...”

 

He walks near me without any hesitation and holds my hands with both of his own. A contrasting childlike smile in his face. The words die in my mouth. There are no gloves again. His touch is cold.

 

“I am giving you reading lessons already. Don’t you think it’s time for you to teach me something in return?”

 

My mind stops working for a few moment. What on God’s name is he talking about? He is an educated, noble born young man. What could I, a low born slum dweller, possibly know that I could teach him?

 

“Me? What can I teach you?”

 

“The waltz!”

 

His face lights up like a flame.

 

“I hear it's popular in London. Teach me some steps. I want to learn dancing.”

 

His grip on both of my hands tighten in excitement.

 

And thank God I can waltz. Greg taught us waltzing after he got quite accustomed with the upper class in London but I have no idea if this is a good decision. But it is better than getting dismissed.

 

“But Sir, shouldn't you rest for a little bit? You are panting.”

 

“No!”

 

He almost screams. No point in arguing when he is determined. Like the time a few days back when he refused to let me in the room although he was clearly having a nightmare.

 

“Alright. Yes. We need to move some furniture for the space then.”

 

I remove my hands from his grip.

 

“No need. We can use another room.”

 

He grips my hand and drags me through the door.

 

It is quite funny that although being a thief, I did not bother to learn more about this house. Did not even bother to steal anything ‘till now. His jewellery drawer is not even locked. Neither are any valuables. I wonder why?

 

When he opens the high wooden door, I stop breathing...

This is not a room. This is a ballroom.

 

“No one ever uses it. At least, I saw no one using this room. No social gathering or things like that. Who would even want to come into this place out of the living?”

 

He walks in, his shoes making pronounced sounds against the flooring in the spacious area.

 

“I got ourselves some music to dance to, otherwise it would be quite boring.”

 

He walks over to the gramophone standing alone in the corner. A different place, different time, a different me would be thinking about how much the gramophone costs.

 

A screech of the record and then the music starts. He turns and walks towards me, towards the middle of the room then extends his hand and whispers.

 

“Lead me now. I am all yours.”

 

I know that phrase means nothing. Just some words he thought will be uplifting for me. But God knows what they do to me.

 

“Just follow my lead. You will do perfect.”

 

That is all I can manage.

 

I take his hand as I place my other one on his waist with a trembling hand. When he puts his hand on my shoulder, it’s war inside my head.

 

“Go right. Now put your left foot in front, now back a little.”

 

I guide him slowly through our dance. The first steps and the music goes effortlessly.

 

But slowly everything changes. I can’t even hear the music. I forget that there was even music in the first place. I forget that there is a room around us.

 

Because suddenly the world concentrated on one person in front of me. The way he moves, the way my hand on his waist feels, the delicate grip in which he holds my fingers with his own. I feel it with my whole body. His grip on my shoulder starts to send a fiery sensation through my veins.

 

Are we a bit closer than we were minutes ago?

 

And the whole time, we don’t look away from each other. I cannot. I have reasons. I don’t know why he does not. Maybe he is just trying to learn.

 

We certainly get a bit closer with each turn. I can feel his hot breath over my face as I am sure he can feel mine. I don’t care if my grip on him has tightened. Maybe I am bruising him but he does not seem to care. We get closer inch by inch with every step of the dance. Our heels click on the empty ball room, making reverent echoes. Seems like no one is in the world around us. Just the two of us, dancing into oblivion. Dancing like this is our first and last dance. He is surprisingly good at it.

 

A doubt starts to crawl inside my mind. Does he know how to dance already? Was this just an excuse? My heart beats so fast that I think I might faint at any time. He wanted this dance to just be close? Is this all in my head?

 

At some point in time, we have stopped. Our chests pressed together, hands clutching tight. Breathing the same air together.

 

“Do you know what this music is called?”

 

He asks from under a ragged breath.

 

“No. Tell me.”

 

My answer is a whisper.

 

“The beautiful Blue Danube.”

 

I see his face close to mine. So dangerously close that I can see the little flecks on his irises.

 

“Danube is a river, Watson. I have seen a painting of it. It’s beautiful.”

 

He leans in closer. I feel his breath in my ear.

 

“And it’s blue like your eyes.”

 

He says at last.

 

I shiver. Goosebumps over my whole body. My nerves stop working. My limbs go numb.

 

I came here to steal his fortune. Make my own life. But God must have laughed a lot that day - at my dreams and my ambitions.

 

Because instead of robbing. I got robbed.

 

My heart beats like it will soon stop. I am sure he can feel that. As I can feel his.

 

 

“Letter for the young Master.”

 

A voice interrupts from outside.

 

We let go of each other in a hurry. The moment lost.

 

“Come in.”

 

He clears his throat and says loudly.

 

The letter bearer excuses himself and he reads the letter. I stand behind him with my heart in my hand.

 

“Count Richard Brooke and his sister are arriving tomorrow at noon.”

 

He says slowly. Not lifting his head. His voice monotonous.

 

I am thrashed upon the reality of the moment. My job, my sole purpose comes crushing onto me from all directions. Suffocating me. Reminding me.

 

Remember who you are. Remember why you came. This is a part you are playing.

 

And my heart bleeds.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Works cited in this chapter:  
> 1)[The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Picture_of_Dorian_Gray)  
> 2)[An der schönen blauen Donau", Op. 314, a waltz by the Austrian composer Johann Strauss II](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Blue_Danube)  
> There might be a bit of historical inaccuracy in this work from time to time. But as I am not writing any historical novel and the story is more important I hope you will not look too hard into it.
> 
> Thanks Lou for listening to me why I scream about this fic, Luna for being my human alarm clock and Alex for making the updates her life and thus making me to write more. And also thanks to my friends and everyone commented and left kudos and subscribed (There are a lot of subscriptions *screams in delight*)
> 
> See you on Saturday.I will be dying for comments :>


	5. It had thornes

“You need a shave, Sir.”

 

“No I don’t!” 

 

He scrunches his nose like I have asked him to eat something disgusting.

 

I take his hand and place it on his own jaw then drag it, to let him feel. His warm hands against mine. The stubble a welcoming pricking on my thumb as I drag it along with his hand.

 

“See? Stubble. Guests are coming over. A lady is visiting. You don’t want me to be dismissed from my job, do you? If you are not presentable to a lady, people might talk.”

 

“People do little else. And who are the people anyway?” 

 

He scoffs. Just like a stubborn child.

 

“So?” 

 

I ask again.

 

“Yes. Yes. Do whatever you want.” He sounds irritated.

 

When I rub the brush over the soap bur and start to put foam on his face, I realize it has been a mistake. I made a promise to myself last night to keep my emotions in bind. I am not here to offer him my heart. I am here to take what he has. I am a thief, born to a thief, born to be one.

 

But his eyelashes fall upon his porcelain skin, his eyelids vibrate and I slip a little.

The way he lays himself for me. The trust in me when I have an open blade in my hand, frightens me.

 

I cannot imagine the amount of hatred he will have for me.

 

With each flick of the blade, the smooth skin underneath is revealed and my instinct tells me to kiss it. All I want in that moment is to hold his face with my hands and show him how much I love him. I want to ask him the meaning of the dance we had yesterday. Did it even mean anything for him? Just a little something? I wish, I just wish and get buried inside the mountain of wishes.

 

He hisses and flings his eyes open when I splash the witch hazel on his face.

 

“By jove Watson, you are definitely trying to kill me!”

 

“I am very sorry your highness. I should have told the witch hazel to behave.” I say trying to suppress a laugh. He smiles in return.

 

I hold his face, trying to soothe the burn. I wish I could kiss it away. Wish I could keep in mind who I am. 

 

Mostly, I wish is to stop falling in love with him.

 

He whines a lot as I arrange for a fragrant bath. Complaining how it is unnecessary, a waste of time. How I am actually trying to avoid my study session.

 

“First shaving, now a bath. Am I your doll?”

 

Wish you were. So I could hide you inside my shirt and run away with you so no one could touch us. Neither Moriarty, nor Colonel Moran. I am stuck inside a dream which I want and also I don’t want anymore.

 

I do not look when he undresses and gets into the bath. I don’t trust my body and my mind. Not anymore. But the water is not as opaque as I thought and it leaves nothing to my imagination.

 

Sitting at the edge of the bathtub, I see from my hindsight his lean thighs. The taut muscles. His stomach visible from under the semi opaque bath water. The trail of hair starting from just under the deep navel. I take a breath and avert my eyes because I cannot allow myself to see more. Because if I see more it will be the end of me.

 

“My cousin used to work for a wealthy family to look after their little son. He was very fond of my cousin. He used to give his little Master a bath whenever guests were coming over. So not exactly my doll. You are just my baby Master.” 

 

I try to say with a mock seriousness in my voice and look at him from my periphery.

His lip trembles for a few moment in an attempt to contain his laughter but that restrain does not stay. He laughs out like a child. When I said baby Master, I was not joking. It’s so contagious. I cannot help but join him.

 

“Ah!” 

 

He suddenly cries in pain between the laughter and covers his mouth.

 

“What is it? Let me see?” 

 

I kneel besides him. Prying his fingers softly from his lips.

 

“This tooth, it keeps cutting me. It’s sharp.” His voice is almost teary in a moment

 

“Oh wait.” 

 

I rush to my room. I know exactly what I need. The thimble was in my suitcase. This is a trick I learned long ago.

 

When I come back, he is sitting in the bathtub with his knees dragged to his chest. He looks up from under the damp curls with agonised eyes. I can see tear drops forming at the corner of his eyes.

 

“I think it’s bleeding.”

 

God, he is a child.

 

“Shh. It will be alright. Here, open your mouth.” 

 

I cradle his smooth face softly. He opens the lips of which the roses in the garden are envious of. And I slip my thumb inside.

 

I find the tooth and start to rub over it with with my thimbled thumb. It goes over and over the tooth. He closes his eyes and breathes softly. He is so close again. Just like yesterday when we were dancing but now he is laying in front of me without a piece of cloth on his body. I feel his breath over my hand. 

 

I try my best to not look down but desire wins and my gaze falls upon his naked self.

The inside of his mouth is like velvet. Warm, wet and like silk. Does my hand falter a bit?

I don’t care. I just look at him. The faintest hint of chest hair and just above the water his dusky pink nipples, all perky from the water. 

 

Will he mind if I touch them? He was all over me yesterday. Maybe he will not mind. Maybe he wants this too? If only I knew.

Will he mind if I press a kiss on that cupid’s bow upper lip?

 

When I look up, he is looking back at me. I cannot read his eyes but certainly I don’t see hate. Does he know what love is? Or desire? Or that all of the things he has done have no meaning behind them at all?

 

So this was the scent. Under all the riches, all the perfumes, this is what he smells like. Have I even smelled anything before? I drink up the scent like I have not smelled anything in my whole life.

 

Why is it that every time we are close, we get closer and closer? Is that his fingers moving I feel on my elbow? Yes, it definitely is. Why is he touching me? Why can’t I look away from his eyes? Why am I forgetting again who I am?

 

He blinks and lets out a sigh and the spell breaks. I retreat my hand slowly and check the tooth.

 

“All smooth.” 

 

I say, putting the thimble in my pocket with a trembling hand, suddenly missing the warmth.

 

 

 

**

 

 

Sitting by the window, I see the horse carriages arriving. First I see Moriarty, humble smile pasted on his face. Then I see a woman, elegantly dressed. Moriarty helps her to get down from the carriage. Irene. Must be. Another plainly dressed woman follows behind... Probably her handmaiden. They enter the mansion and as they vanish from my eyesight I look behind me. 

Master Scott looks at me with questions in his eyes. 

 

“They are here.” I say.

 

“Very well. Then I should go and welcome them.”    
  
He averts his gaze and walks to the door. I follow like always.

 

I hear the servants and maids greeting Moriarty. He is pretty well known in the house. His magnetic charm always does the trick. And then I see him; expensive suit, hat in arms, silver headed walking stick in hand - Jim or better known here, Count Richard Brooke. Looking very much like a Count.

 

“This is very kind of you to come greet me here, Master Scott. I hope you are in perfect health?”

 

I see the reptile extend his hand to him. He accepts and let’s go after a shake.

 

“Yes I am. I hope you are too, Count Brooke. The journey was not too exhausting, I hope?” 

 

His courtesy voice is so calculating. So much not like him.

 

“I am sorry that my sister could not join us now. She will certainly join us for dinner.” 

 

Jim smiles an all teeth smile.

 

“That is very convenient. I am waiting to meet her in person at last.”

 

I look at his face as he says that. He is waiting. Of course. Definitely. A noble born beautiful woman. Perfect for him. Of course he is waiting.

 

He looks at me from the corner of his eyes and Jim's gaze falls on me.

 

“This must be Hamish. I assume that he is working well for you, Master Scott. He has quite good recommendations.” 

 

Jim walks over to me and raises his eyebrow in question. HIs expression hidden from anyone else in the room but me.

 

I just give a small nod. From over the room, Master Scott says nothing.

 

 

**

 

 

“Count Brooke has requested the young Master to excuse his valet for a small errand in his room.” 

 

Mike stamford appears at the door a few hours later. I look at him for approval and he nods.

 

“Ah, Watson!” 

 

Moriarty smiles at me. That fake polite smile. 

 

“I need your help in a matter of my suits. Which I guess you are very much capable of doing… Stamford you can go now and leave the door open.”

 

I watch as Stamford vanishes from my view.

 

“Tell me about your progress, John.” I hear Jim, not Count Brooke anymore.

 

I smell tobacco in the room. Jim’s face is away from me. He turns around and smoke leaves from his mouth.

 

“He is naive and really not very good at human emotions. So things are a little bit slower than usual.”

 

“Well, I expected that.” 

 

He says slowly, leaving another lingering mouthful of smoke.

 

“But as now she is here. I guess things will get a little faster. Irene will take care of that but you have to do better too.” 

 

Jim walks closer to me and lifts my chin with two fingers. His smoky breath is over my face. I hate both - the touch and the smell.

 

I may have twisted my nose in disgust.

 

“Tell him how his cheeks are flushed. How he looks happier now she is here, how he is gaining weight or some rubbish like that. Little Johnny boy, don’t disappoint me.” 

 

He smiles his wide smile. The one which makes anyone and everyone’s veins freeze.

I walk back to the room absentmindedly, not thinking anything in particular, rolling the thimble in my fingers. Does it taste like him? I wonder.

 

 

 

**

 

In the evening I accompany the young Master to the dinner. I dressed him up to look the best, from the maroon silk of his waistcoat to the evening coat. All perfect. All in place. I arranged his curls while he sat there like a doll. My doll. Dressed him up so he can go and meet and start to fall in love with a woman. 

 

A woman, of course.

 

Of all the things I have touched and caressed and washed and dressed, has anything been this beautiful? This ethereal? Looked like an angel?

He walks in front of me like a peacock. Curls glistening in the candlelight. I feel so proud of something I do not even possess. If I could, I would take him and show him to everyone back at home.

 

My precious thing.  _ My _ sweet William. 

 

He takes the seat besides Master Moran. Face stern and expressionless like he is sitting beside any vile thing. I don’t know how strained the relationship between the two of them is, but it’s not in a good state from what I have seen. Will he talk about it if I ask? Also, it does not matter anymore. Does it?

 

Jim winks at me discreetly and I pretend that I never saw that. Everyone is waiting for the lady. I have not seen Irene Adler up close before. I always wondered what people craved for so much.

 

She arrives with a scent of jasmine and the whole room gasps. I look at him, the one all is intended for, from my peripherals. I can swear that I see him close his eyes as if he does not want to look, which must have been a mistake because not looking is an impossible task in this case.

 

She is beautiful. People were not exaggerating an ounce. A beautiful face, piercing, intelligent eyes, slender body. The way the silk gown wraps around her body, emphasizing every asset, like it is a part of her. The open shoulder too inviting. Lips red like blood, hair black like raven. Yes, she is a beauty. Her sharp cheekbones remind me of someone else in the room. The proud way she holds herself reminiscent of the man I dressed with my own hands today. I can’t stop noticing the similarities.

 

The whole room bows and welcomes her. Behind her, a woman walks in grim faced. Her handmaiden.

 

Irene throws a coy smile at Master Scott. I cannot see if he smiles back.

 

The dinner goes uneventful except the low chattering and the sound of silverware on plates.

 

**

 

 

“I think I had too much wine.” 

 

He says as I start unbuttoning his coat back in the room.

 

Yes, he obviously had. It was a bit difficult dragging him back to the room with his mildly disoriented feet and the long sentences he kept murmuring the whole way.

 

“Stop.” 

 

His hand grabs my wrist in an attempt to stop me from opening the buttons. I look at him. There must be all the confusion in the world smeared over my face but he just smiles wide. 

 

“Stand here. I have a plan.” 

 

He starts rummaging through the closet and comes back with a heap of clothes in his arms. I just stand there, looking at him as he lifts up the waistcoats one by one. Discarding each one immediately. His face lightens up when he finds one of his liking. Then he walks towards me and starts unbuttoning my coat hastily. 

 

‘What... What are you doing, Sir?” 

 

I protest in spite of my approval of the whole situation.

 

“Stay still! My fingers are not listening to me!”

 

“But Sir...”

 

“That’s an order, Watson. Stay still.”

 

I stay still and stand with my beating heart as he unbuttons my coat, then my waistcoat and stops when I have only the shirt left on my body. And God knows, I can sense a warmth down under my trousers. Dear God, I hope he doesn’t see. He is drunk. He will miss that for certain…

 

“Hmmm. This will do.” 

 

He says with a hand over my shirt clad chest and then retracts his hand. Shoving down the chosen waistcoat into my hand, raising his eyebrows.

 

I get the clue and wear it, followed by the coat he chose for me and they fit like a dream.

He walks behind me when I look at my reflection in the ivory framed mirror. And by jove I look good. Expensive fabric makes any man look good irrespective of their status. This is the proof. 

 

“You look a noble born in these, Watson. A lord yourself.” 

 

He smiles softly at me. Why do my cheeks burn?

 

He sighs and then looks at me through the mirror. Then says slowly.

 

“You know Watson, it is said that when two people connect by the depth of their heart, every time they close their eyes, they can see each other.” 

 

His voice is sober now, eyes pink. Do his cheeks flush a little?

 

My heart sinks. So he is falling for Irene. This is the start and this was destined to happen.

I have a part to play then.

 

“Miss Brooke looks perfect beside you. Certainly a face you will want to see whenever you close your eyes.”

 

He looks at me again. A lingering gaze and when the moment ends, he sighs. Eyes still on me.

 

A thick silence hangs in the air and then he talks, whispering like a breeze.

 

“I was not talking about Miss Brooke, Watson.” 

 

The world around me stops for a moment and I try to assure myself that I am seeing too much into things. That was not what he meant, of course. I regain my breath with the last of my efforts and turn around and start unbuttoning his waistcoat. This time he doesn’t stop me.

 

I remove his shirt and there he is. Standing by the light from the oil lamp, carved from stone and marble, lean and beautiful as a flower. Or maybe a sword. I don’t know. I don’t know much words. All I know is he is beautiful. More than the moon, more than the stars, more than everything I have ever laid my eyes on. My William. He cannot be Irene’s. Not even for a false matter. 

 

He starts undressing me with semi stable hands. I start to panic at the thought of being half naked in front of him. He has never seen me like this. What will he think about my body, the scars I have…?

 

When the shirt goes over my head and I stand shirtless before him, my cheeks are definitely red for all the wrong reasons. He does not say anything. Just looks at me and I don’t meet his eyes but I feel them. Running over my body.

 

“How did it happen?”

 

“A knife stab, Sir.”

 

“It got infected?”

 

“Yes Sir.”

 

“Does it still hurt?”

 

“No, Sir.”

 

A hand brushes over the scar. A raspy voice rings in the silence.

 

“Still beautiful.”

 

I did not know desire smelt like lavender. 

 

 

**

 

 

“Irene loves poetry. She said she would love to discuss things with me.” 

 

He says with a blunt face in the morning.

 

I play the part.

 

“That’s excellent, Sir. You two are such a match, in intellect and beauty. She is really well educated. As are you.” 

 

I say with a rock upon my chest. This was not supposed to hurt. Not at all. This was supposed to be a theft.

 

“You say?” 

 

He asks.

 

“Yes Sir, you should go and... _discuss_.” 

 

Does my voice choke a bit?

 

He does not reply to me. Just looks out the window, his gaze unfocused.

 

And I, a fool, stand in front of him. I, the fool who lost his heart to the man he came to rob from.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took me three attempts to upload this chapter. Ughhh. Anyway.The usual thanks to all of my friends and family (Who has no idea what I type all day) and all my lovely readers who gives me wonderful comments. Hope you enjoyed. I will be back on next Tuesday. Be strong. ;) Peace out.


	6. Still I embraced it like a fool

He is lost in thought the whole day. I don’t ask why because since Irene’s arrival, we are becoming more distant, little by little. This was destined to happen. This was my task. 

 

Then why does it feel like someone is ripping my heart slowly, agonizingly, so that I feel it in every fibre of my body?

 

He does not play his violin, he spends most of his time looking aimlessly out of the window or lost in books. He is not reading, I know because he is not even turning the pages. Does not even register what I am talking about. My reading lessons are the only time I get to be close to him but still he is distant. He wears his gloves now. I stopped sleeping beside him and he did not utter a word of protest. I spend sleepless nights wishing that he sleeps well.

 

And the rest of the time he is with Irene. Walking in the garden. Sitting to read poetry. Irene touches his hand while talking, laughter like music, holds his hand while walking. Of course he will love those things. Irene knows perfectly how to seduce a naive young man like him. She is succeeding. 

 

They walk close together and I walk behind them. Far behind. He is getting away from me. My job here is almost done. God almighty knows why I feel like I am approaching my death.

 

He says something and Irene laughs and clutches him closer. They look like expensive birds with all the beauty and riches. 

 

Only if he knew.

  
  


**

  
  


I accompany him one afternoon in the garden. With no one else in sight. Just the two of us and the birds and the sky.

 

“Do you remember your mother, Watson?” 

 

He asks in a small voice, looking to the path, swirling a twig in his fingers.

 

“Not very much, Sir. I was only five years old when she was hung… hanged herself.”

 

“She committed suicide? Like my aunt?” 

 

He stops on the path and looks up to me.

 

“Yes Sir.” 

 

I nod.

 

He walks near me. Curls fall over his forehead, some unnamed sadness all over his face.

 

“But you remember her right? You remember her hugging you? Cradling you to her chest? Singing you songs?” 

 

His face is so desperate. What is the matter I wonder?

 

“I do. A little.”

 

“My mother died giving birth to me. It’s like I strangled her myself, Watson.” 

 

I see a tear at the corner of his eyes. His lips tremble. God, this poor child. What is he doing here? What am I doing here?

 

I hold his face in my hands and he starts to cry. In the middle of the garden. I don’t even know if someone is watching us but this is too personal a moment and he needs comfort.

 

I wipe his tears and lift his chin with my finger to make him look at me.

 

“Listen. You didn’t not kill your mother. It was just a natural thing. I am sure, if she was alive, she would be proud of the handsome and bright young man you grew up to be. You understand?” 

 

I brush aside the stray curls from his face and he looks up to me. A small hint of a sad smile on his face.

 

That night in bed, I can still feel his tears on my finger.

 

**   
  


Jim interrupts the walks everyday and sends me on errands so that I cannot be near William. So that Irene can get closer to him.

 

I am not liking this anymore. It was a mistake coming here. All of this was a mistake.

 

“Ah, what a coincidence.” 

 

Suddenly Jim appears from nowhere in front of me during the afternoon walk. I was walking behind William and Irene.

 

“Why don’t you get us some food from the house, Watson? And perhaps something to sit on. This afternoon asks for a picnic, doesn’t it, Master Scott?”

 

William turns around from where they have stopped in their path and says in a cold voice. 

 

“Indeed.”

 

“Off you go, Watson.” 

 

Jim smiles at me and I have no choice but to go.

 

It takes me twenty minutes tops with the hurry in which I arranged everything. Ran around the pantry like a maniac picking up whatever I see in front of me. And I run. I left him alone with those vile creatures. He is alone. He needs me. 

 

I see no one the whole way and I try to find them like a madman. Where are they? Where have they taken him?

 

I take a turn towards the more shadowy part of the garden. The one most ideal for the picnic. And then I see them.

 

By the grey shadows of the oldest tree in the garden I do not know the name of, I see Irene and him. Wishing immediately to be blind. Or better. Dead.

 

No Moriarty in my vision. Only the two of them..

 

His hand on her waist, her hand on his shoulder, both of them oblivious of their surroundings, closed eyes and kissing, like lovers. Lips upon lips, knives in my heart.

 

I don’t know what the sound is that makes him snap his eyes open and look at me, it might have been the sound of the food basket falling from my hands, the apples tumbling on the ground or the sharp breath I took which was too loud for the otherwise silent garden but he looks up and I see his kiss swollen lips. 

 

I’ve been too close.

 

I walk backwards a few paces. Eyes locked on him. Neither of us break the gaze. Just for a few moments and then I turn back and run.

 

What is this burning inside me? Why does it feel like there is actual fire going on, making my insides black like charcoal, making my heart stop? I can’t see anything in front of me. Vision blurry from the tears, I run and run and don’t stop until I am in my room and have closed all the doors and everything. There is no point of loving anymore. There is no point of losing my heart anymore. I wish he dies. 

 

I don’t go to him for the rest of the day, he never calls for me. I hear people outside. Beautiful carriages stop in the gates of the mansion. Gentlemen step outside of them. Today is the reading day he sometimes talked about. Some sort of discussion that was arranged in the library once a month. I spend the evening curled in my bed. My tears have gone dry. I don’t even want to wipe them away.

 

He looked so content while kissing her. So lost in her lips. Did I really think that one day I will kiss him? How naive of me.

 

Do not think about William. Do not think about him. Do not.

 

I don’t know what is the time or how long I have been looking at the wall with a blank head but my stance breaks when the bell in my room rings. 

 

He is calling me.

 

I don’t go instantly. Why should I?

 

He is sitting in his bed when I enter the room. Hawk like gaze piercing, fixed on me.

 

“Do you need something?” 

 

I ask as nonchalantly as possible. Maybe trying to push a little of my annoyance into my words. Like that even matters to him. The picture of Irene and him kissing under the tree flashes before my eyes. Did he look blissful? He must have. I can't remember. My vision went hazy within a moment of that.

 

“You were not here when I came back to my room. You knew I had reading today. You know how I need a cold compress after every reading.” 

 

He sounds irritated.

 

“I fell asleep faster today. My apologies.”

 

He looks at me with calculating eyes. Trying to catch my lies? He probably knows it is a lie but I don't think I care anymore. Or desperately trying to not care.

 

“Get inside. I feel a nightmare coming.” 

 

He makes space for me in the bed and lifts up the cover. Of course I will obey. My body obeys without even thinking.

 

I stare at the dark ceiling. Never making an attempt to turn to face him. But I feel his eyes and then a sigh comes from him. I can almost feel his breath in my ear.

 

“Watson, look at me.” 

 

I turn my head and look at him. I don't want to but I fail again.

 

I see him facing me in the dim light. 

 

He takes a breath and says slowly.

 

“Count Brooke offered me a proposal today.”

 

I know what it is, and I know what the consequences are and my heart feels like it is bleeding. Didn’t I intend to hate him? My voice might have croaked when I ask innocently.

 

“What is the proposal?”   
  


“I marry Irene and leave this life behind and once we are out he will help me to claim my inheritance and I will be free. He only wants the future of his sister secured. Nothing else.”

 

Yes. Nothing else. Except your death. I don't know what to do anymore, my love. I don't know how to stop this. He asks me something but I can’t hear.

 

“Watson, I asked you a question.”

 

He shakes me and brings me back from my thoughts.

 

“Will you go with me to London? I said I won't go without you.”

 

“Of course. I will. I only live to serve you, Sir.”

 

He looks at me with full eyes and does not blink for several moments. I can't take my eyes away, Iike my eyes are stuck in honey.

 

“I kissed Irene today.” 

 

He says slowly at last. The sentence sounds like just a statement. No emotion at all or maybe I am imagining things again. Like I always do.

 

“Actually, she kissed me first and I just went with it.” 

 

He shakes his head.

 

“That’s wonderful, Sir. But are you sure you should be telling me this?” 

 

_ You shouldn’t. _

 

“I have no one else to talk to, Watson.” 

 

I see his painful gaze on me.

Is he hurt by my words?

 

“All right. That’s good...That’s very good.” I stutter. 

 

He bites his lip and then opens his mouth to talk again.

 

“Also… Um… Should I have felt something? When we were kissing I… just wanted it to be over. Do people usually feel something? In physical affection, was I supposed to feel more?”

 

My throat feels like it’s made of sawdust. Dry and hurting. The words are a struggle.

 

“Yes. You must have felt something, Sir but you did not realize.”

 

“No Watson. I am very certain that I did not.” 

 

He murmurs softly.

 

I remain silent. What does anyone say to that?

 

“Is a kiss everything she will expect from me? I think not. What will she expect?” 

 

His doe eyes go wide as if frightened and he grabs my hand like a scared child.

 

“Sir, you read so many books and everything and you must have touched yourself. You must know.” 

 

I feel so helpless. What is he doing? This is surreal. Why is he asking me this? He doesn’t know how much the mere thought of him sharing a bed with Irene hurts me. 

 

“Books don't say everything and although I know what you mean by touching oneself... I… I’ve never touched myself.” 

 

He looks down in embarrassment.

 

“You never...?” 

 

My words are incoherent because I can't believe my own ears.

 

“I had no one to talk to. No one closer to my age to talk about anything. How would I know, Watson?”

 

Oh God, this bird. What am I going to do with him?

 

“People know gradually, by experience I think. You will learn, Sir” 

 

I struggle to form coherent sentences. His grip on my wrist is distracting. Why is he still holding my hand?

 

“Experiences, you say?” 

 

He says slowly, looking at my face. The pale eyes reflect the flame of the lamp. His unblinking eyes look at me and then he says like it’s just a normal thing. 

 

“Okay. Show me then.”

 

I feel like I must have gone deaf or maybe I’m hearing too much or maybe this is a joke. And although I heard him perfectly I cannot help asking again.

 

“What?”

 

“You heard me perfectly the first time, Watson. Kiss me. Do what I need to learn more before Irene and I get married.”

 

“Sir. I… are you… why me?” 

 

My heartbeat accelerates. Blood rushes through my veins making me deaf. I cannot hear anything except his words.

 

“I have no one else. Please Watson.” 

 

He pauses, as if arranging the words and I may have been wrong but I hear a tinge of sadness in the whisper. 

 

“Maybe imagine me as any woman you like and show me how you will love her.”

 

And that hurts twice as much than it should have. He is asking me to imagine another woman. My silly love. He is pleading, his wide eyes, helplessly looking at me. The object of my desire, the purpose of my existence right now, is asking me to love him. Be it for someone else and this is the only time he will ever ask. Imagining a woman? Why would I? 

 

Poor thing. Living in a strange place with no one to talk too. Stuffing his head with useless books and he does not even know anything about pleasure.

 

I get myself closer to him and take his face in my hands. Lips so close to each other that we are breathing the same air. This has happened before. I did not imagine more could happen.

 

I consider things for some seconds. The unrealness of the whole situation steeps in my thoughts but I decide not to think about anything anymore.

 

And I touch his lips with mine.

 

It is just a touch, a lingering one but a touch nonetheless. And although I know he did not ask for just this. I can’t do more. My heart hammers in my chest like everyone in the world can hear. I know he can.

 

“Please. More.” 

 

He whispers in my mouth and I let go of the last thread of doubt I was holding onto and I kiss him. 

 

Fully this time, without the shread of false pretenses. Lips soft like cotton. Warm like velvet. I feel his shy tongue under my own, sweeping at my lower lip. Hesitant like a virgin. He clutches the front of my nightshirt and draws me closer. I let him. 

 

What did I imagine he would taste like? I did not. Everything is so sweet. Like the sweetest flavour I ever tasted, like his lips are made of honey. He is so sweet, so soft, so tender. I will be soft to him, I will love him like no one ever will, I will pretend Irene never existed, there is no Moriarty, there is no conspiracy and I will pretend that this is our wedding night. I can pretend. I have lived most of my life pretending.

 

I don't let him go. Instead I manoeuvre myself onto him. Our bodies parallel on the bed. My body over his lean one. Closest it has ever gotten. When I let the kiss end and distance my lips from his, he looks at me with half lidded eyes and asks like a breeze.

 

“So… this is what I should have felt like.”

 

“Yes. Keep thinking about her, Sir. She is the reason you are feeling this.” 

 

I whisper.

I know that is the truth. Of course he is thinking about her.

 

“I am not sure about that”  

 

He licks his kiss swollen lips. The ones I kissed, the ones I nipped at and made redder than before and I don't know what to say to him anymore. I am getting more than I asked for already.

 

“Please don't tell me that was all.”

 

“No.” 

 

Is all I can manage with a throbbing heart in my chest.

 

“Don't stop.” 

 

He clutches me closer and this time he presses his lips to mine eagerly. This time when I let him go he cannot keep his eyes open anymore. Like he is lost in the sensations. He did not look like that when Irene kissed him. I am sure now. I can do that. Only me.

 

I kiss him more. His jaw, his lean swan-like throat, down his collarbones. The small freckles from walking in the sun or riding the horse, I kiss each one. I nibble the soft skin with my teeth. I mouth at the skin and he moans under me. 

 

Not in pain. I know what pleasure sounds like. So many sleepless nights spent thinking about loving him and now I am making him happy. I don’t think about the reason at all.

 

Slowly, gently, I kiss to remove the kiss of Irene from his existence. How dare the witch kiss him. I should have been the first. Not her.

 

After that I undress him slowly, savoring each moment as the bare skin unveils in front of me. Little by little. Marvelling at the beauty of him. Not that I haven't seen him before but this, every inch of his body is mine for this night. He glows in the pale light like a marble statue. I should thank the Gods for this. I will cherish him. I will make him fulfilled. I will love him like no one did before and no one ever will.

 

His pale pink nipples harden under my touch. Every flick of my tongue on them earns me a sound from him. He is so beautiful. So vulnerable. His hands tight in the bedsheet like he is afraid to fall. Like I will let anything happen to him anyway.

I taste every inch of skin. He doesn't stop me when I mark him just under his collarbone. My teeth leaving crescent shapes on the pale skin. A claim with no value. His nails dig deep into my back and I feel him. The desire growing harder under my touch. He is waking up. I was awake long ago. Can he feel me?

 

I dip my tongue in the shallow navel and he shudders.

“Watson?” 

 

He asks breathlessly.

 

“Yes?”    
  
I look up from nuzzling at the trail of dark hair under his navel.

 

“It's... It’s hurting. Is it supposed to be like that?”    
  
His eyes indicate down and under the light of the oil lamp, I see him blushing. 

 

My little, shy rose. _ My _ William.

 

I remove the rest of his clothes slowly and find him. Aching and dark. Beautiful like the rest of him. I hold his length in my palm and whisper in the silence.

 

“Do you want me to continue?”

 

He nods his head vigorously in approval and I slide down.

 

Beautiful is what fits perfectly to describe every part of him. His prick is not an exception. My own flesh reminds me of its presence at just the sight of him.

 

What is this scent that’s crowding my senses? The aroma that’s fueling my nerves. Is this what making love is? Is it what falling in love feels like? There were wenches and maids in the past years but there was no love. Ever.

 

I kiss the inside of his thighs, the creases, the little moles sitting in contrast with his pale skin. I nuzzle at the coarse dark hair at the base of his cock. Breathe him in. I kiss the base of his shaft and he hisses. His hips buckle up seeking and searching for more contact. As if I will only do this much until he asks. If only he knew.

 

“Watson!” 

 

He cries as if in agony. 

 

“You pearl.” I whisper into his skin.

 

I don’t care what he will think of me calling him that. I don’t care about anything. I know fully well I am not teaching him anything. I am not pretending anymore and neither is he. By now both of us are well aware that this is not a lesson. No excuse. I am only taking what is mine.

 

And I take it. I kiss the red tip again and again. I kiss the taut skin. Lick every inch of it. And when he starts to breath as if in agony, I hollow my cheeks and take him in my mouth. The loud gasp he makes is the only price I could ever ask for. As I start to move, he becomes restless under me. Hands end up in my hair. He pulls my hair achingly. His fingers hurt my scalp but the pain is nothing against the response he gives under my touch. I elongate every moment. Stretch it so this never ends. His prick engorges in my mouth fast. He is close and I am taking him there.

 

He might have screamed when he spills in my mouth but I don’t remember. His hands might have gone painfully tight in my hair but I don’t feel pain.  Because I am just busy having him, every last drop of his desire, every bit is mine because I did this. He is mine. Be it just for one night. 

  
  


I kiss him again. The corners of his eyes. His forehead where his curls got pasted in sweat. The lips now angry red because he has bitten them in an attempt to stop himself from moaning. I whisper sweet nothings in his ear. He hums and drags me closer. So close that I don't know if we are even two different people. He whispers in the silence. 

 

“I didn't know.”

 

“William... William...” I whisper in his mouth.

 

And kiss him again.

 

Bitter feels sweet. Sour feels like honey. He feels like mine.

  
  


**

 

“Watson. You might want to take a leave. Give them some space to get intimate.” 

 

Jim walks beside me in the garden where I am following William and Irene at a safe distance. I can’t take my eyes off him. I can still smell and taste him with every breath. The sweetness still surrounding me. His touch still enveloping me like a soft warm blanket.

 

“No!”

 

I think my voice is too high. Both of them turn around along with Irene’s handmaiden.

 

Jim puts a shilling in my hand. 

 

“Go somewhere else, Watson. Find something else to do for an hour.”

 

He grits his teeth and looks at me with the cold stare I have been always afraid of.

 

Suddenly I am not scared of him.

 

I don’t care anymore. I don’t care about anything in the world. 

In front of four sets of wide eyes, I throw the shilling into the grass. Sunlight reflects on the dew.

 

“I have only one job in the world. That is to look after him. Be with him everywhere.” 

 

I say and turn my face towards the path where Irene and William have started walking again.

I don’t look back but I can feel Moriarty’s gaze burning me.

 

And right there, at that very moment, I decide to end everything.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone as always. The number of subscriptions keep increasing and that's giving me great joy. :3  
> *winks* hope you liked the chapter.  
> See you on Saturday.


	7. And I bled like a river

 

As I expected, Jim sends Stamford and calls me to his room immediately after we are back in the mansion. I walk towards the guest wing in silence, being prepared for his wrath.

 

As soon as Stamford is gone; the sound of his shoes fade in the hallway, Jim’s hand grabs my face. His nails dip into my skin.

 

“What are you trying to do here, Johnny boy?”  He asks me from between gritted teeth.

 

If only I knew what I was trying to do. Yes, maybe I will tell William the truth. Then what will happen? I don’t know. Do I even care about the consequences?

 

“I want out.”

 

His eyebrows cock up in a manner that indicates he is amused by my words.

 

“Out of… what?”

 

I remove his hand from my face and taste the coppery tang of blood inside my mouth.

 

“Out of this. I don't want to be a part of this plan anymore. Leave me out of it. He is already in your grip. Give me my portion and I will go back to London.”

Jim looks at me with disbelieving eyes for some moments and then bursts out laughing. As if I am telling him the greatest joke of the century. And then suddenly he goes still. Very still. That cold stare and icy smile set on his face. He looks manic.

 

“You only get the money if you complete the work, John. That means until he is sent into the mad house. You quit now, no money. No one gets a shilling. Not you. Not Mrs Hudson. Not Molly or the little ones. Just no one.”

 

“That’s unfair!” I snap at him.

 

His face turns into an obtrusive shade of scarlet and he rushes at me and pins me to the wall. His hand on my throat, choking me, stopping the oxygen from entering my airways.

 

“Unfair? Do you think everything is fair? Do you think I preferred living in the slums like that? This is my ticket out of this life, you bastard! Don’t turn this into a mess. Do you think I will let you? What if I just told him that you are nothing but a fingersmith from the slums of London? That you are false, a fraud?”

 

I pry his hand from my throat. My lungs burn from the sudden gush of air.

 

“Then I have something to tell him as well. That you are not a Count. You are just a lowlife. A farmer’s son just pretending to belong within the high class.”

 

He slaps me hard. I am sure that it’s going to leave a mark.

Then he grabs me by my hair. So hard that my eyes start to water.

 

“Think about your family back home in London, John. How will they feel when Johnny boy here will go back empty handed? Want to disrespect your mother’s name? One of the greatest thieves of London? You don’t. You should go home in glory, you fool.” He spits the words.

 

I free myself from where he trapped me against the wall, stand in the middle of the room and look directly into his eyes.

“Then don’t play him too hard, you moron. He is sensitive and has got no one on this earth. Tell that witch to be gentle or he will close up as hard as a clam and there will be no plan to fulfill anymore.”

 

Moriarty snorts at my words and rolls his eyes.

 

“Look how the slum dweller is falling for the rich boy. Just do as I told you, John. No more than that. Enough words. Now go back and tell him how his eyes look brighter and cheeks look red because he is in so much love with the Count's sister.”

 

I run out of the room.

 

**

 

I realize I have walked into a spider's web. There’s no way out of it. I will have to wait and watch and I will watch my love get married, proclaimed insane and sent to a mad house. I wish I never loved this man. I wish I had of said no to Moriarty that day.

 

Do I really think I will be able to take his things in the end, that the money will not surround me like a serpent and will hiss into my ear the story of how I betrayed the man I love?

 

 

 

**

 

 

The heavy drapes do not let me know what time is it but considering it’s past dinnertime I can assume it’s late.

 

I am doing one of my favourite activities, despite his protests.

 

I take the soft heels of his feet in my hand and massage them gently, the colossal toes, the pink nails, the blue veins. I want to kiss them all. Again. Take them in my mouth and surround them with my tongue. I want to see those toes curl when I wring from him every last droplet of pleasure. I would. Right here. Right now. If it was possible. I would pin him against the soft carpet and dip my tongue in him. I would bring out every sound of pure bliss he could make... Maybe in another lifetime. What I got, what happened last night. That was a singular occurrence, a rare alignment of the stars and planets.

 

“Why are you smiling?” He asks in a soft voice from where he is half seated on the couch.

 

“It’s just-”

I don’t look at him. Instead pay my attention to his feet, pink like the petals of water lilies, perhaps more beautiful. I know the water drops glide across his skin just like the lilies.

 

“Doesn't it bother you sir? Doesn’t it bother you not to know? How many ships sail on the wide sea, how the sky looks when the sun sets in the horizon, people leaving, people coming home, goodbyes, welcomes, tears, smiles…? How the ports smell, how the seawater washes away the sand. The patterns it leaves. What’s the farthest you have gone?”

 

I pause and chuckle.

 

“The little hill behind the mansion?”

 

There is no answer from him, I hear only steady breathing.

 

I look up and find him looking back at me. Eyes glossy, a small smile smeared on those rosy lips. Looking lost, looking drunk, not on wine. Maybe on something else?

 

“Who cares about other people?”

 

He says lazily, whispering. His eyes roam around my face. Searching for something. Something hidden under my skin?

 

I don’t know what he finds but his eyes go still over my own.

 

Then he says in the smallest but deepest voice I have ever heard from him.

 

“I will be content here.

If you are with me.”

 

Goosebumps run across my skin. Awakening every nerve in their path. The words are too loaded, with too much meaning inside them. I don’t deserve that from him, a look of disdain would have been better. I lower my head to hide the tears that are threatening to spill out of my eyes. The all consuming burn is back in my throat. Wish a real fire would devour me soon. I don’t even think about the end of this, the future is blurry.

 

“You are very lucky man, Sir.”

 

The words come out of me like the ventriloquist dolls magicians use to show on the streets. I am nothing but a puppet. Jim is pulling at the invisible strings.

 

“Count Brooke is one of the most powerful men in London and he will protect you. As you are now betrothed to his sister.”

 

“I am. Yes.”

 

His voice sounds like it is coming from somewhere far away.

 

“But I am not sure... if I love her.”

 

The quiet calculated words echo in my hollow skull. I look at him to find his sea blue eyes moving over my face again. Frantically searching, evaluating. Can he read my thoughts on the wrinkles on my forehead. I wish he could.

 

What does anyone say to that?

 

“You do love her.”

 

He snatches his feet from my grip and sits straight on the couch. My heart threatens to jump out of my throat. I am not ready for this conversation. This should not be happening.

 

“How can you be sure, Watson?”

 

There is no warmth in that voice. I am suddenly scared. I feel so bare, so naked. Like he is removing my skin with his glare and can see my insides. The true intentions I have. The ones I had but don’t anymore.

 

Stating the ambiguous truth is my only escape.

 

“You stare out of the window all day, Sir. You are always so deep in thought… you turn in your sleep and sigh. You… you seem besotted.”

 

The breathing which comes from him is heavier now.

 

“And what if I am certain about what I am saying. That I don't love her. That I love someone else?”

 

My eyes close on their own.

 

Is that a church bell I hear ringing? Then what is that sound deafening my ears. Is it blood running through my veins? I am almost certain there is some wound opening in my heart and it's bleeding profusely and he can see.

 

He said what he should not have and I can not do anything.

 

“If I, who has no one on this earth, say that I love someone else, will you still tell me to marry her and go to London, somewhere I have never been before?”

When I open my eyes, I see him shaking, mouth open like he is having trouble breathing. Eyes pink and glazed over, like his tears are trying to burst out of them.

 

If I could, I would kiss him at this moment. Would kiss the unformed tears away. Would whisper in his ears that I love him and I won’t let anything happen to him. Would kiss those trembling lips until he smiles again.

 

But the reality is I have no other option but to be cruel. So I put my fist on the gaping wound in my heart and make a weak attempt to cover the bleeding wound.

 

I set on a fake smile and look at him with the most genuine expression I can gather. Still kneeling.

 

 

“Yes. You will love her eventually, Sir. You will love her and cherish…”

 

 

The slap falls on my face like sting of a thousand bees. My cheek burns like it is on fire. And it doesn’t end with one slap. I lift my face, there might be tears in my eyes.

 

And again another hard slap falls. His face is red with anger. Yes, I deserved those. I deserve the hatred. I deserve more punishment than this, for what I am doing to him.

 

He stops hitting me eventually. His face still furious with anger.

Then he drags me up by my shoulders and and in a few seconds I am being brutally pushed through the door to my own room and the door shuts loudly in front of me.

 

I call his name again and again. No answer comes from the other side of the door.

 

I just stand like a ghost in the dark. My cheeks burn. My shoulder hurts. Warm tears stream down my face. I wish I was not alive.

 

 

**

 

 

Moriarty leaves one day after along with Irene and her handmaiden. The whole household looks like some cloud of unhappiness has fallen upon them. Jim took everyone in his grip with his charm, no wonder everyone looks grim upon their departure. Irene throws a shy smile at the man standing beside me who has a clenched jaw.

 

This is the plan. They will pretend to leave and wait in a nearby inn. Master Moran leaves the same day for something concerning an auction of books and will not return for another two weeks. And at night, I leave with the young Master. A neat plan with no chances for any mistakes.

 

 

Night falls.

 

“It’s time.” I tell the darkness sitting beside me. He stands up like a puppet and holds my hand.

 

“It is.”

 

And we run away from the house. From everything. His hand against mine, fingers gripping tight. If only that was the whole of it.

 

Moriarty waits by the bank of the small river behind the mansion. This is the only way which will leave no trail of how we left or where we went.

 

I don’t look at him when Irene runs out from the inn and pulls him into an amorous embrace. Nothing to be done anymore. This marriage is happening. It is inevitable.

 

Jim finds a small church and with a decent amount of money, we get a room and a wedding ceremony.

 

It is not extravagant. I dress him up in the best suit I managed to bring for him. I have not looked into his eyes since we arrived at the inn. I sit beside Jim on the wooden bench while he and Irene exchange vows.

 

I would be lying if I say that with each word of the vows, there is no hammer thrusting upon my heart..

 

**_“Wilt thou obey him, and serve him, love, honour, and keep him in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?”_ **

 

I will be lying if I say I didn’t utter “I will.” with Irene. Maybe before her.

 

**_“...for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part.”_ **

 

I may have been wrong but when he said his vows, I’m sure he was not looking at Irene.

 

I will be lying more if I said that the ring was not on my own finger before everything. It looked liked it belonged there.

 

It ends at last. And I leave him alone in his room to go sleep on my own. Before going in, I smell tobacco and I see Moriarty standing in the darkened narrow hallway. He flashes his teeth at me in a sickly smile.

 

I will be lying if I say I sleep that night at all. The walls in the inn are not very thick.

 

As predicted, he starts showing signs of a mental disorder the following day. The Opium is doing its work. It’s very subtle at first.

 

He does everything the whole day as if in a trance but then everything worsens at a steady pace. I don’t have anything to do except look at him, while he out of nowhere starts smashing things in the room. Throws away his breakfast. I see Irene rushing out of room and crying to Moriarty.

 

I prayed for his death once. I feel like a disgusting thing whenever I think about it.

 

I kneel down in front of him where he is panting on the floor. He looks at me with smile like an infant.

 

“Let’s play valet again.”

 

And we play. He dresses me up in his most expensive clothes and gleefully looks at me. Jumps around me while Moriarty shakes his head as if in utter sadness. But I see the sparkle in his eyes.

So happy to be closer to his fortune. If I could, I would wipe that smile away. If I could, I would wipe him away from the face of this earth.

 

“Play along with his tantrums, John. Wear the suits. Be familiar with them. Gonna be yours soon.”

 

He walks out of the room leaving behind a cloud of smoke.

 

And as soon I turn back to the room, a pair of cold lips crush onto mine, my love’s. It’s not a kiss. It’s brutal and painful and bruising. And God, I was starved. I melt under it instantly. But then it hits me. It takes all my work and concentration to pry his hands out of my arm.

 

“What are you doing?!”

 

I look around to see if anyone’s watching. Thank God almighty that no one is. My heart is throbbing like it would stop at any moment.

 

“ Please… Play with me...No. Stay with me.”

 

He almost cries in my arms. A ghostly shadow of the man I was used to seeing. Waxy lips. Greasy hair. Thinner than he was when I first saw him.

 

I hide my tears away. Tuck him gently into his lonely bed and walk out of the room. Irene has been relocated to another room. Who dares to spend time with a mad man or more, wants to live and sleep with him in the same room. The task for which I came here, is nearing it’s end.

 

The next three days I see no sign of Moriarty. Before going out he said he had official work to do for the marriage. As well as converting some of William’s inherit into cash. It takes time.

 

“You won’t want to go back to London with no money, would you? I need to pay everyone. Don’t I?”

 

That leaves me and the madman along with Irene and her handmaiden. Three days feel like three months.

 

And then one early morning he arrives. With a bag full of cash and documents.

 

“Some gentlemen will be coming here later in the morning. From the mental hospital. Answer them properly, John.”

 

I just nod and look at the tall human figure standing in the rain in the backyard. His eyes are closed. Like he is washing himself of everything.

 

I go towards him and hold his hand.

 

“Come inside.” I say softly.

 

“Play with me again?”

 

He asks in a high pitch, like a little boy. Eyes lit up like the first rays of the sun.

 

“Yes, I will.”

 

He fidgets under my hands while I change his wet clothes. Then he makes me wear his favorite suit. Pins his favourite pin on the lapel and then removes his wedding ring and takes my hand to put it on my finger. I protest at first but Moriarty clears his throat from the door. Warning me. Reminding me to play to his every whim.

 

When I nod my head in approval and he gets to put the ring on my finger at last, his face lights up.

 

“Perfect!” He bows down on front of me.

 

“How can I serve you, my Sir?”

 

In spite of all the sadness, all the wrong things happening around us, I laugh. And he laughs with me.

 

Our laughter gets drowned out by the sound of the horse carriages outside.

 

 

**

 

 

“So what are your opinions about his Lordship? You are the closest to him. That is why we ask. You are the best person who can evaluate the symptoms.”

 

The gentleman with spectacles asks me slowly.

 

Moriarty encourages me with a raised eyebrow.

 

_Play the part John._

 

“He has gone mad, Sir. Irrevocably mad and that's unfortunate and sad. His poor wife is so helpless now. ”

 

“Then as his most close acquaintance, what is it you suggest we should do? What should be the treatment?”

 

I keep silent for some seconds and can almost feel Jim's eyes on my back.

 

“Keep him isolated. So he is not harmed in any way and can harm no one.”

 

The two gentlemen nod in agreement.

 

After an hour, three carriages leave the inn.

 

“Where are we going?” the thin voice asks  while attempting to look outside.

 

“We are just going for some routine health checkups, my Lord. Will take just a few minutes. After that, all of us are going to eat some gourmet lunch at a famous place I know about.”

 

Jim’s eyes meet mine in a silent agreement.

 

The scenario changes outside. The trees get thicker.

Our carriage stops in front of a high wall with a monstrous gate. The walls sad and grim . Like death is awaiting inside. I help him to walk down the carriage. Four people in white clothes are waiting for us in the entrance. I walk slowly with him inside into the yard while Jim and Irene walk up behind me. The grey brick of the building reminds me of graveyards.

 

I hug him. A last hug before we part our ways. He melts into my embrace.

 

When we part, he fixes his gaze upon me and slowly starts to walk backwards. Towards the entrance of the building.

 

And then suddenly four pairs of hands are holding me with grips like a crab.

 

“What is this nonsense? What are you doing?”

 

I scream and try to snatch my hand from their hold but they are too strong.

 

I see Irene suddenly starting to sniffle and Jim consoles her loudly.

 

“Don’t cry dear. This insanity is not your fault. It was destined to happen eventually. The young Master is so unfortunate.”

 

I even forget to struggle by looking at her crocodile tears. God she can act.

 

“You are being mistaken. I am not the Lord. I am just his valet. Please. Ask him! ”

 

I struggle under the restraint of the four men and scream at the two gentlemen in front of me.

 

“My poor Master. Thinks he is the valet who lived in the slums of London and I am his master.”

 

The deep familiar voice says from in front me. Any sign of insanity is gone, disappearing like  magic. He walks away from me and stands outside the gate.

 

“Take care of him, please. He is so helpless. So unfortunate. All of this.”

 

I stare at his unblinking eyes. He averts his gaze.

 

How will anyone believe me to be his servant while I stand here with expensive clothes on me? An emerald pin on my lapel. A wedding ring on my finger? While he stands there with plain clothes and hunched shoulders?

 

The four pair of hands drag me inside while I scream and curse and throw my hands in an attempt to free myself.

 

And from my blurry vision. I see him smile. A little smile which disappears immediately as I notice him.

 

No, not Jim.

 

The one with the curls surrounding his face and eyes pale as the sea.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't kill me..  
> See you on Tuesday?


	8. Between the living and the dead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *******This chapter comes with a warning of child abuse of sexual kind (Not between S and J). Feel free to suggest that if I should put more warnings. And if you don't want to read that. Contact me so I can tell you what happens in it while skipping the graphic description.*******

What do normal people have in their normal lives? Is it boring? Exciting? Do they enjoy living? Savour their existence? I don’t. And I, for once never had normal. That does not by any way mean that I never wanted a normal life - full of boredom where I have friends and people to talk with, where people talk about the weather, argue about the food, scream about politics. But I had none of that. 

 

I had an uncle, greedy and full of filth up to his eyes, a household which hated me and a life I did not choose. I missed my house in France. Missed my dead father. Missed the mother I never saw.

 

“I will teach you a lesson, bastard.”

 

Uncle glared at me while I struggled under Mrs Turner's hold.

 

“Don't call me a bastard.” 

 

I snapped at him. Five year old me contained far too much courage in the thin body; much more than anyone expected to, full of unbound energy which came out unexpectedly sometimes but only for some moments. Then I was punished and would be five again.

 

I knew I had angered Uncle and I know what is coming next. Another punishment. This is the second day of living in the Holmes mansion and already there have been three different methods applied on me. 

 

This time Uncle approaches at me with a metal ball in his hand and gestures me to put it in my mouth.

 

My arms are still seized by Mrs turner. I do as he says. It stops me from moving my mouth entirely. Even my tongue gets stuck inside.

 

“Now William, put your hands in front of me.” He said in a calm voice

 

I did as he said. He holds my hand, palm up, considers something for a moment and then the whip strikes. 

 

A sharp sensation dissolves all my pain and feeling into the one point of my hand. I see where the whip strikes my palm, awakening a red line in its path. The pain is too much for me. But I can't scream. The metal ball stops me. Only tears well up in my eyes. The excruciating pain increases a hundred thousand times when the whip touches my hand for the third time. I am sure I cannot take anymore. One more strike and I will lose consciousness.   
  


But fortunately, another strike never comes. Instead he stops, maybe feeling pity at my red, twisted face and tears.

 

He kneels in front of me with an expressionless face.

 

“Remember little William. This is not France. You don't have your father here. Here my words are final. If you decide to misbehave again, remember the taste of that metal ball in your mouth.”

 

Over thirteen years, the ball must have decayed a bit. The cold, metallic taste now familiar.

 

I remember the servants talked behind my back. Thinking that I didn’t know English. I understood everything. One day, I just lost my patience and slapped the boy who worked in the kitchen. 

 

Mrs Turner had gripped my hand to stop me from slapping him again. So I just slapped her as well. She glared at me but that was all she did… This house made me insane and to my great satisfaction I made everyone insane in return. It was joyous in a sense.

 

But there was an oasis in the desert. A little sunlight within the gloomy house. There was someone else in the house who did love me. And I loved her back. 

 

I remember the first day Mrs Turner attempted to leave me in my room without lighting my oil lamp. She was just leaving me in the darkness while I cried and begged her not to.

 

“Please just a little light. I am scared of the darkness, please!” 

 

I cried loudly and she came back but not to light my lamp.

 

“Scream like that and the ogre who lives behind that door will come out and eat you alive. He loves little children.” 

 

That was scary for five year old me and to my great horror I saw the wooden door she pointed at slowly getting opened. I almost closed my eyes in fear because I was sure that this was the end, this is how I die, the ogre is coming out.

 

But instead came out a beautiful woman in a nightgown holding a candle. Her pale face illuminated in the soft light. Dark curls surrounded her face. She reminded me of someone. Someone I saw only in a painting back in France.

 

“My my… That’s not a very mature thing to do, Mrs Turner. Scaring a little boy like that. Look at his face. Are you made of stone or something?” 

 

She sounded like a bird. Soft and high. A warmth in the cold house. Cold even in summer. 

 

She lit the lamp in my hand and glared at Mrs Turner, making her leave. Then she took the chair next to my bed and motioned me to come closer. Her eyes sparkled and she asked me,

 

“Do you know who I am?”

 

I have never seen her before. But I do.

 

“Aunt Eliza.” 

 

Her lovely face brightened up in smile. The dark curls, reminiscent of mine, danced in the candlelight. She looked like the picture of my mother back in France. The one I brought with me.

 

“I resemble your mother, right?” 

 

Her eyebrows rose and she smiled.

I nod my head in agreement.

 

“Although I could never compete with her. Margaret was more beautiful than me. Everyone compared me to her but I never envied her. I was proud to be her sister.”

 

She ran her fingers through my hair gently. It was the first time in years someone was touching me with affection. The first time in this house someone was showing me affection. A cry tried to make its way out of my throat.

 

“You look just like her. I remember before you were born. She named you. I am sure no one calls you by that anymore but I will. Sherlock. It suits you more than William.”

 

Who knew someone would love me like the mother I never had?

But she did. She had no children of her own, so she spread out her motherly wings like a majestic bird and took me in her protection. As much as she could give.

 

She played with me. Taught me the alphabet. Took my hands and walked with me in the garden and told me stories about my mother. How she loved books. How beautiful her singing was. How she would be so happy if she could see me now. When I would cry, Aunt Eliza would wipe away my tears and hold me close. The mother she had inside her was awakened at my arrival. We were both happy for that.

 

But that does not mean that all of my life living in that house was smiles and sunshine and songs.

 

She had episodes of extreme insanity where servants would drag her to her room and lock her inside. She would smash everything, curse the household, curse Uncle. But when the episodes ended, the screams would stop and she would be normal. Like all of it was some dream. She would come out in her elegant gowns and smile at me and would walk with me in the library. 

 

In the library I had hour long sessions where I was made to read books. I loved books but did not love the force. But I could not protest because if I did, there was always the taste of the metal ball.

 

After I threw my food one afternoon, Uncle called me into the library along with Aunt Eliza.

 

“William. The behavior you are currently showing, do you know that is very close to the insanity your aunt shows? It is hereditary, I have heard. Do you know there are mental institutions in a secluded part not far from here where insane people are taken for treatment?” 

 

I could not tell him that I saw the maid spit into my soup, that’s why I refused to eat but he would not believe me and would call me a liar.

 

“No, Sir.” 

 

I glance at my aunt slowly shaking in her seat. Uncle is doing this with the sole purpose to make her uncomfortable.

 

“Do you know how they are treated in there?” 

 

He asks me, smiling, like we are discussing how the flowers bloom while sitting in the garden and sipping morning tea.

 

“No… I… I don’t.” 

 

I am so scared of him. He scares every fibre of my being. He is a vile human. His tongue black from the ink he keeps wiping on it. Black like his insides, like his heart. 

 

“They shave their heads, then make holes in the ground and put the person in it. They are kept there. Irrespective of the snow, rain or summer heat until the person is cured. Do you think your aunt will fit in there?”

 

I could not answer. Instead I just looked between the crude smile hanging from Uncle’s lips and the closed eyelids of my aunt. I was not old enough to understand everything. But still I knew how most of my aunt's insanity was induced by Uncle. How he initiated it. How he taunted her. Made her go insane. And then he makes a show out of it. Like he had nothing to do with it to begin with. 

 

I saw the mental illness she had but I also saw how it was magnified by her surroundings and by how the whole house interacted with her. I had no way to stop that. I just watched while she got worse with each passing day. If something happened to her. I didn’t know how I would live in the house. It was suffocating even with the warmth and light she provided for me. 

 

She tucked me in my bed at night and when she attempted to stand up, some nights I would hold her hand.

 

“Aunt Eliza… Sing a song, please?” 

 

She did. With the voice of a bird. She sang about the night sky or the lonely prince. I slept and dreamt of being in clouds, while this house gradually vanishes from my eyesight.

 

**

 

Two years passed. Two summers, two autumns. I learnt to read poems. I learnt to read fairy tales. I learnt to read something which were neither of those. 

 

 

“Read aloud. Don’t read like you are a poor peasant who does not get to eat. I am feeding you. Am I not?”

 

Uncle groaned from the other side of the table and thumped his fists against the wood. I felt my aunt flinch by my side.

 

I did as he said but the words bore no meaning for me. I didn’t know the what and whys of the sentences, the actions, the emotions. I just read aloud as he said. 

 

 

**“** **_The sweep round, to pass between her thighs,was bold and graceful. In the middle was a well defined semi-circular depression, from whence the large, thick and beautifully pouting lips of her cunt commenced, which in her present position lay partially open._ ** **”**

 

My reading might have been too rushed because Uncle stopped me to abruptly scream at me. 

 

“What is that reading? Why are you not stopping between words? Is that reading? Are you illiterate?”

 

How was I supposed to read something which I didn’t even understand? I could read fairy tales if he asked but this, this was out of my ability.

 

But God forbid if I could tell him that out loud. I would end up in chains with whip marks on my back. Like the ones from the day before that day were still fresh. My crime, I did not wear gloves while touching his books.

I tried to resume my reading again but the fact that he was so adamant to make me read something which I didn’t even understand seemed hilarious to me suddenly and I laughed out. A moment later, I saw my aunt giggling as well. My smiling face must have made her laugh but what happened next, that little moment of joy could not compensate.

 

Uncle stood up from his place and walked towards us. My smile stopped as soon as he rose from his chair. Then he placed both of his glove clad hands on aunt’s and my face. Suffocating our air ways with all the pressure he had. I struggled under his grasp. Trying to free myself. But Uncle is a strong man and my little strength and scrawny body held no impact. Neither did my aunt’s fragile attempt. When I was at the brim of losing my consciousness, he removed his hands. I breathed in like a dying man. As did Aunt Eliza. Both of us struggling for air after what seemed like a lifetime of not breathing. 

 

Yes, a punishment. Because we laughed.

 

“Eliza. Read that. Show William how a reading is done.” 

 

My aunt dragged the book to herself and started reading in her musical voice. 

 

**“** **_You could just see where the clitoris lay snug. I have already observed that this was not largely developed, nor were the inner labia of her cunt at all projecting, indeed, they were not visible, unless her legs, with bent knees, were stretched apart, as at present. On each side of these luscious pouting lips, and the long immense pinky gash, was a triangle of considerable space, such, in fact, as is only to be seen in a woman of the splendidly large proportions._ ** **”**

 

I saw Uncle’s eyes close in satisfaction. 

 

Once a fortnight, there would be guests in the house. Well suited, top hat wearing, groomed gentlemen. They would gather in the library and wine was served. My aunt would dress in her best gowns and her best smile and would slowly walk towards the library. The heavy wooden door of the library would close after she went in. I was never allowed inside.

 

On a particular winter night, one I remember clear as a picture, there was a slight crack in the door. Tempting as any forbidden thing is and I decided to make the crack larger and sneak in.

 

The gallery of the library was full of those aforementioned gentlemen. The room full of scents making me dizzy. All of the gentlemen sat there like in a daze, eyes half lidded, all of them breathing heavy as if in great trouble of breathing, but with smile upon their lips. I remained in the shadow where the light from the candles did not reach me.

 

And in the most illuminated part of the room, on the raised platform, stood my aunt with a book stand in front of her, reading in the sweet voice she uses to demonstrate for me in the library. The warm sound dancing like honey in the silence.

 

**“** **_After handling and admiring all, I laid the lips well back and apart, and there they kept open. Nothing could be more charming than the interior of that most enchanting cunt, of an exquisite salmon-pink in colour, nothing was out of order. The clitoris, which bulged out in excitement from my touches of all the parts around, lay first in the upper partition of the pouting lips;then became below, slightly open, a charming entrance to the urethra, larger than usual, to allow the mighty rush of waters to pour from it when piddling;_ ** **”**

 

 

The crowd around her moaned in some unexplainable action which I did not understand. The gentlemen fidgeted in their seats. I waited in the dark until she took a moment to catch her breath. Another round of wine passed between the gentlemen and while everyone was not paying attention, she suddenly looked at me. Somehow being aware of my presence. There was a small smile on her lips, that smile will never be erased from my mind. Will never in this life. Because that was the last time I saw her smiling.

 

Because later in that night, there was a shriek of a maid from the garden and there she was. My aunt Eliza, hanging lifelessly from a thick branch of the birch tree. Like a doll in her wedding dress. 

 

Uncle never cut the tree. People said sentiment. I never thought so. The reading ceremonies in the mansion stopped. Gentlemen came but less in number. There was no one to carry on after her death. 

 

Except there was. Who was just not moulded.

 

**

 

After nine years, the library is open for the reading sessions again. I have had my tea, cleared my throat and watch as carriages stop outside. The gentlemen walked towards the library, my uncle inviting them inside, offering wines. It’s just like old times after nine years. Almost the same. 

 

Because instead of being in the dark, I am in the light. At the centre of everyone’s attention. Dressed in my best suit, tailor cut to emphasize my features - Uncle’s orders - to make me feminine, to make my sharp bones look softer. I am standing in front of a book. The page open in front of me showing an illustration of a man copulating with a woman. It does not matter to me. My mind is numb.

 

A light breeze makes the candlelight move. Uncle clears his throat. He is older now. With greys in his hair. He needs glasses to read the small texts.

 

“Gentlemen, I would like to introduce you to my nephew, William.” 

 

A murmur rushes through the men sitting. I take a bow. 

 

“William will now read from a classic piece of erotic literature. Very rare by now.” 

 

He turns towards me with the fakest smile on his lips.

 

“William. Read for the gentlemen.”

 

I open the pre marked page with my gloved hand. My voice rings in my own ears in the library. 

 

**“** **_When I recovered my senses, I found myself undressed and a-bed, in the arms of the sweet relenting murderer of my virginity, who hung mourning tenderly over me, and holding in his hand a cordial, which, coming from the still dear author of so much pain, I could not refuse; my eyes, however, moistened with tears, and languishing turned upon him, seemed to reproach him with his cruelty, and ask him, if such were the rewards of love._ ** **”**

 

Time passes. The room around me breathes heavier and heavier. Gentlemen fidget in their seats. This time. I know what everything means.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am kinda getting tensed now if anyone is liking the story. It's getting so complicated haha. I almost started doubting that if this was a wise choice to adapt such a story for my first long fic. Welp you have to start somewhere. Also my estimate tells it will be 14 chapters long. I will be dying for comments btw. I hope you are enjoying. Thanks for all the subscriptions (which is over 100 now) and all the kudos and comments. It means a lot.
> 
> Works cited in this chapter :
> 
> 1) [The Romance of Lust (1873) A classic Victorian erotic novel by Anonymous](http://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/30254/pg30254-images.html)  
> 2) [Fanny Hill: Or, Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure Novel by John Cleland (1748)](http://www.gutenberg.org/files/25305/25305-h/25305-h.htm)  
> 


	9. In isolation and denied desires

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *******This chapter comes with a warning for dubious consent and BDSM. Not between S and J. If you feel like it would be better that I put it in the tags, let me know.*******

Uncle did not mourn Aunt Eliza’s death a bit. Nor did the household. It was like my aunt was just a piece of old furniture that nobody paid attention to while it was there. Now it is gone, no one remembers it was even here.

 

I missed her. I cried in my sleep. I would muffle my screams in my pillow and it would be wet with a constant stream of tears and mucus. If I didn’t, Mrs Turner would tell Uncle and that usually resulted in punishment. Whip in hand, metal ball in mouth and slaps which left impressions of all his fingers. There was no one to tend to me, no one to put ointment on my wounds while I cried from the pain or sing me to sleep.

 

“You have to be more attentive to words while you read, William! Why are you reading in a low voice? Raise your pitch. Read like you mean the words, like you enjoy their actions and consequences.”

 

For years, I did not know what the words were supposed to mean. I only understood the basics. The things that were happening in the books had something to do with physical closeness; something which I was not familiar with.

 

Puberty came one day; I grew more hair under my arms and groin, got taller and my voice broke. But that was it. It just came and made no inner impression on me. Books were an integral part of the house and there were all kinds of books, a wide selection that Uncle had accumulated over time.

 

I was always curious and decided to find the purpose of the hundreds of books Uncle made me read over years. I found an anatomy book one afternoon and at midnight in my room, when I ultimately closed the book, I realized standing in the fifteenth spring of my life, I had no sense of sexual desire, no reaction towards the things that I was meant to have, like the naked women in those books or the illustrations where men and women were having intercourse. The explicit descriptions of women's genitalia were bound to have some sort of reaction from me because there was nothing wrong with my anatomy. I was a healthy boy with a perfect set of mens genitalia but that was the whole of it. I’d never had an erection. What are bodily responses? Should I have been aroused when the books were describing how a man pleases a woman? Should I have felt heat rushing through my body which ended up at the tip of my desire, when the protagonists reached the tipping point of their pleasure?

 

But here I was, surrounded by books of passion and art of physical love and I am numb as a stone. This body might as well have been made of marble because I see no difference. I feel nothing.

 

Was this what he wanted all along? To make me unfeeling and insensitive towards every bodily desire? So I am nothing but a machine? So I don't have real emotions, real responses? Feed someone poison in a minute amount everyday and eventually they will become immune to the poison.

 

Those texts were the embodiment of the poison he slowly fed me; he started from when I should have not even been aware such things and now I am immune. I would not even feel anything if the most beautiful woman, with her youth and beauty offered herself to me. Now, I am just a device.

 

That was cunning. I would congratulate him if it held some semblance of a good deed done.

 

I tried to touch myself that night. Took my cock in my hands and tried to mimic the actions I read in the books. I rubbed my palm over the glans, pulled the skin just as some of the books described. Nothing. Nothing at all. I could not even make myself hard, let alone reach the peak of which I had yet to experience.

 

And I accepted it. This was what my body was. Devoid of humanly desires. Devoid of emotions. I cannot love anyone. I cannot excite anyone and cannot be excited either. This body is a chamber and my mind my only solace. I am nothing but transport.

 

**

 

I loved science for a long time. Thankfully, I could pursue its discovery secretly because there were plenty of books in the house. I loved poetry as well. I loved Shakespeare's sonnets, the way the words would resonate within me and take hold of my mind fascinated me to no end. I would save the oil in the lamp by my bed so that I could stay up all night to read the books I was not allowed to.

 

Uncle only wanted me to read the books he wanted; another way for him to control and mold me to his whim, so when I was caught diligently reading an astronomy book in the quiet library one afternoon, I was punished. I blamed the book, blamed the vivid imagery and poetic prose of the galaxy and of a world bigger than I could ever imagine. With every blow of the whip on my palm, I deleted the solar system from my memory and promised myself to never learn further.

 

Eventually, I mastered an escape technique over the years. Whenever I was being punished, whenever the pain was too much, I would simply detach myself from my physical self and take refuge in the farthest corner of my mind. Where nothing could touch me. Neither Uncle’s vile words, nor Mrs Turner's ignorance, nor the pitiful and inferior like glances my servants threw at me every time I came back in the room with a bloody hand or whipped back.

 

Yes, there were whips eventually but they were not part of my punishment. They were to me. But not to Uncle.

 

I was still a rebel. I still woke up at ungodly hours of night to read books. More and more of them. There were always new additions to the library and due to my inevitable persistence, Uncle eventually allowed me to read them but for only one hour a day. Obviously that was not enough.

 

My secret stash of books was discovered when I tried to make gunpowder using a Chinese recipe I found in the library. My books were seized and had to endure punishment. When I came back to my bedchamber that night, my cheeks were burning and I had lost a chunk of hair because Mrs Turner had gripped too hard trying to still me while Uncle slapped me mercilessly.

 

He never had mercy.

 

“What is your problem, William? Why do you always behave like a mad dog?”

 

I had glared at him with the most venomous eyes I could master.

 

“Because I am mad. You have said it yourself. It’s hereditary.”

 

“No. You aren't. You just like giving me trouble.”

 

What did I say? Cunning. Cunning man. He knew exactly what I was doing. But the more he knew, the more I wanted to disobey him. If I was burning inside, I wanted everyone to feel the heat.

 

Yes, I was burning and there was no one to tame me.

 

**

 

He sometimes showed me gratitude. Maybe out of pity? He always ordered the best clothes for me. My suits were always made from the finest fabrics. He appointed a violin tutor for me. Bought me a horse on my eleventh birthday. Eventually made my voice count in the house. But it was all for nothing.

 

Maybe he was compensating for destroying my childhood, my adolescence, my youth, my future? For making a machine out of a young man. Like it was something he could compensate for with money. I wanted to run away from the house but that was a foolish plan. Because outside this house, I knew no one, I knew nothing. I could not go one day without my medicine and without it, I had nightmares. He kept me in this little cage and although the doors were open, I never dared to leave.

 

A foolproof plan. I had to give him credit for his intellect.

 

So books were all I had. No one in the whole household would talk to me. They kept their distance like I was some virile, volatile animal. So I became the animal they feared.

 

I cradled music like it was the source of the last drop of water on the earth. Music was my solace. My own little heaven. When I made my violin sing for me, it was my fulfillment.

 

After some time, on an evening after my seventeenth birthday, Uncle looked at me and declared,

“You are ready.”

 

My heart trembled despite knowing what was coming. I asked like a fool although I knew what the answer would be.

 

“Are the ropes necessary?”

 

Uncle snorted.

 

“Do you think they will just come here to see your face? It's not like you can grow a pair of breasts at my whim. So until I have something to display in front of them, why will they even bother to come into this rotten part of the country? Why would anyone want to look at you?”

 

He walked over me and tipped my chin with his fingers. I looked him straight in the eye.

 

“The wine is not enough, William. Nor is your face! You know what happens when you become disobedient?”

 

Yes I knew. I knew it all. I was trapped. I am living in quicksand and descending gradually.

  


The library reopened the summer after my seventeenth birthday. Flocks of gentleman rushed through the door. I read. Everyone applauded.

 

And then Uncle declared.

 

“I have a little something for you gentleman and your viewing pleasure.”

 

He motioned me with his hand to begin. I got rid of my clothes slowly. Maybe my thin build, narrow waist and long curls did exactly what Uncle wanted. Gave the gentlemen an impression of a woman. Or maybe they did not even need it? And then I was sitting naked. My back towards the men. Thick ropes bind my hands. A black blindfold cuts off my vision. My ears are open and I can hear them all as they murmur in appreciation.

 

I had read that evening.

 

 **“** **_Two hours passed and then the monk did indeed awake in a prodigious agitation and seized me with such force I thought he was going to strangle me; his respiration was quick and labored, his eyes glittered, he uttered incoherent words which were exclusively blasphemous or libertine expressions; he summoned Armande, called for whips, and started in again with his flogging of us both, but in a yet more vigorous manner than before having gone to sleep. It seemed as if he wished to end matters with me;_ ** **”**

 

A whip falls against my back with a sharp noise. I hear it clearly first before the stinging sensation even registers in my brain. The room gasps with me. I gasp in pain. The gasp behind me is of pleasure.

 

“Do you see the way the whip cuts the pale skin? Leaving pink trails behind...”

 

A hand touches my buttock. Uncle’s. Touching the broken skin. Then another hand joins. This time a stranger's. I can feel their lust dripping through the touches. Disgust reverberating through my body, drowning me as they all entertain themselves at my expense. I might not have physical needs anymore but I am not really a machine. The blindfold helps me the most. Without the visual stimulus it gets far more easier to force my mind to cut the strings with my body.

 

Months and months. The displays changed. Sometimes I was whipped. Sometimes I was not. But it was all the same, humiliating for me. Draining every ounce of light from my body, leaving me deserted with only my mind as a way of escape.

 

But at least I am alive. Although I don’t know how much I appreciate being alive.

 

**  


 

It was an unexpecting winter evening that changed my life.

 

I read as usual. A story of how two young ladies were pleasing a man, as well as a man pleasing an older man. I looked at the spectators’ faces while reading. Some are familiar faces. The one with the bald head is Mr. Jones; widower, married a young thing last month but is not really interested in women, the middle aged one with the waxed moustache is Mr. Frank; married with at least two separate secret lovers, the one with the velvet suit is Mr Bradshaw; he runs a publication house in London which publishes an erotic monthly newsletter for gentlemen.

 

And then I saw him. A new face. Elegant. Handsome. Slicked back hair. Younger than others in the room. There was something in his eyes which contradicted his whole demure but before I could deduce further, he looked away.

 

“Now the book you see, or you heard William reading, is a very rare one. A first edition print of ‘A Woman of Pleasure’ but unfortunately one of the illustrations has been ripped off...”

 

Uncle holds the torn book open in front of the men. A clear wave of disappointment becomes visible on their faces.

 

“A book which has lost pages is not much of any use in this business, Colonel. You know that.” An older man says.

 

“But it is a first edition!” Uncle almost screams.

 

“Not going to change anything, Colonel. You will not get enough for a defective book. No matter how rare it be, it needs to be in perfect condition.” Another middle aged man shakes his head.

 

The rest of the men agree.

 

Uncle's face falls down. But he regains it in a moment, donning a smile.

 

“Okay, one book does not matter much. Let's forget that. I think it's time for you gentleman to watch the special performance.”

 

That means me getting naked and laying with my face down on the narrow bed in front of everyone. Then whips will fall against my buttocks. New red, angry marks. They will scar me lightly and then will vanish in a few days. But the scars in my mind will not. Men touch the purled patches, they have philosophical talks about the texture of skin, the effect of flogging in sexual union.

 

I do not remember ever agreeing to this.

 

There was one distinguishable touch that night. Softer.

 

“You are not very keen on touching the wounds, are you?” Uncle's voice came from behind.

 

The voice that replied was rich, smooth, new and unfamiliar.

 

“No. I pity him.”

 

“Pity him? Do you now?” Surprise was evident in Uncle’s voice.

 

“Yes I do.”

 

The conversation ended there.

 

I watch and see the new man stay behind after everyone is gone. Curiosity gets the better of me. I walk out of my bed that night to place my ear against the secret hole connecting the library and the hallway, hoping to glean some information.

 

“You are never going to get the amount of money we deserve from those books if the illustrations are missing, let alone a chunk of text.” The new voice from the evening says slowly.

 

Tobacco smoke fills the room. I can smell it.

 

“So what do you suggest, Count Brooke?” Uncle’s voice.

 

“I am traditionally trained in the classic arts. It takes me a very short time to copy text and illustration styles. Don’t you think that might be helpful?”

 

There was a single pause. Then Uncle talks.

 

“Why would you be helping me?” Clear doubt in his voice.

 

“Well, you might say I expect a decent percentage of the profit, Colonel. That much should be very clear.”

 

“Okay then. Show me what you are capable of, Count.”

 

“Of course. By the way, your nephew, charming fellow. Bright. Very obedient isn't he? But he looked very hollow inside. Incapable of human emotions. I… I noticed he did not even show any signs of arousal throughout the whole reading and the session after that.”

 

“Yes, he is. Took me a long time to bring him into submission. Quite a tough young man he was. But in the end he is too much of a coward. I fed him the books like poison from when he was young - now look at him “

 

His voice was dripping with pride.

 

“If all the beautiful women in the world get naked and dance seductively around him, he would not even acknowledge it.” He continued smugly.

 

That was all I needed to hear. I came back to my room.

 

The next evening at the dinner table, the mysterious Count joined us. I got an opportunity to look at him more intensely. His eyes. There is something. Something he is hiding. His manners are perfect. Jokes a lot. But several times I catch him glancing at me. Like he is trying to say something but cannot. After the dinner, my suspicions come true. His hand brushes mine while exiting the room and I feel a piece of paper slip into my own. I hurry back to my room.

 

In cursive writing, there is only one line written.

 

**“We need to talk. Midnight. Be alone.”**

 

I throw a tantrum and make Billy go sleep in the servant's quarters. He looks relieved to be away from me as expected.

 

There is a sound coming from the door. I place my ear against it.

 

“Who is it?”

 

“Richard.”

 

“Go away.”

 

“I told you we need to talk.”

 

“But I don’t want to. Why do I?”

 

An exasperated sigh comes from the other side of the door.

 

“I am not a noble born man. I am just a farmer’s son. My name is Jim Moriarty.”

 

My mouth falls open in surprise.

 

“Are you telling me this so I can call the servants and force you to be kicked out of this house?”

 

“No. I am telling you this so that you will believe my next words...”

 

“Which are?”

 

“I first heard about you two years ago. Then the next year dedicated my life to learn about art forgery. All so that I could come here and lure you into a trap of marrying a woman, one of my acquaintances and then steal your fortune with the her help. And then get rid of you. But as soon I saw you, I knew… seducing you with the help of a woman would be…

 

I open the door, making him stop in mid sentence.

 

“Impossible?” I complete for him.

 

I see him nod his head in the almost darkness.

 

“Yes. Impossible.” He says calmly and enters my room, closing the door swiftly and quietly behind him.

 

“So, instead of my previous plan I am here to propose a deal.”

 

I look into his eyes directly.

 

“I am listening.”

 

“You don't enjoy this life, do you? It's apparent from everything. What is your plan about your future? Do you even have any? Marriages are prison. But this marriage is going to free you.”

 

He smiles at me, a wicked gleam in his eyes.

 

“Of course, we will split the money.”

 

“That sounds like nonsense” I scowl at him, turning my back.

 

“And this makes sense? Being stuck in this house for the rest of your life? Reading for perverted old men while they drool to touch your young body, despite they are men? Being under the restrictions of an old man with a black tongue? Don’t you have a future planned?”

 

I tell him the truth.

 

“I don’t have a future.”

 

“What do you have in mind?”

 

He looks at my eyes for a long moment. Slowly realizing the meaning behind my words, that what I will do is probably kill myself very soon. I don’t know how much longer I can hold on for.

 

He shakes his head in genuine disapproval.

 

“That’s not a proper thought, young man.”

 

He walks closer to me, keeping this hands up in a placating manner but looking straight into my eyes.

 

“There is no beauty in that. And if you kill yourself, what will happen to your fortune? Do you want all of it to go to that pervert so he can buy little boys and girls with the money and train them to read those books?”

 

God, he is so right. I shudder at the thought. Why does he have to be so right? But this is madness. This is an insane plan. Why am I even considering this?

 

“But my uncle will catch us somehow. And then he will punish us.”

 

“Punish us?” He asks curiously.

 

Memories crowd in my brain. The ones too dark to even think about. They smother me like smoke and I find myself suffocating on them.

 

**

 

_“Uncle?”_

_Ten year old me sitting in the library with a book in front of Uncle. He looks up to me with questioning eyes._

_“It says in this book that when people are hanged, their tongues stick out and feces is expelled.”_

_Uncle sits straight and looks at me with penetrating eyes. Almost challenging me to complete my words._

_“That day… when aunt died...”_

_I keep pausing at every word. A feeling in my gut telling me that I should not be asking these things. But something makes me ask._

_“Her tongue was not out… and her dress was clean.”_

_He looks at me for a neverending moment then opens his mouth. His voice and the words ran shivers through my spine._

_“Your aunt was trying to escape, William. That’s when I caught her. If I let you understand what happened, you need to remember to never try to run away. Okay?”_

_That day, I knew he was a monster._

**

 

Moriarty listens to me silently and when I stop, he lets out a sigh and then takes out a small vial from his pocket. A tinted, yet clear liquid in it.

 

“This is opium. A very high concentration. More expensive than gold.”

 

I know opium is expensive. I read it in a book once. He continues to talk.

 

“Three drops will make you sleep a whole day. Five drops can knock out a horse. And if you drink up the whole vial... you know what happens.”

 

“Dead, I presume.” I say.

 

He raises the vial in front of me and I try to snatch it out of his hand.

 

“Nuh uh uh.”

 

He retreats his hand and puts it back in his pocket.

 

“It will be my wedding gift to you. I will give it to you only after you marry the woman I bring under the disguise of my sister.” Moriarty smiles at me wide.

 

“You are a real businessman.” I smile back.

 

“So, do you have any plans? I have not thought about it yet. Convincing you was the plan itself.”

 

He rubs his hands in contemplation.

 

And suddenly I do have a plan.

 

Why don’t I take someone else’s life? I have dreamt of that since God knows when.

 

“Find a valet for me. Any boy who could disappear and not be missed. If a bit dense, all the better. We will send him to the madhouse under my name.”

 

I turn to face Jim again. He looks impressed.

 

“Excellent idea. And I will actually tell the boy that I am coming here to deceive you. A young innocent man. And he will be receiving a portion of your fortune. So he will be more willing. Then before he knows, he is the one being deceived. But don’t you already have a valet now?”

 

“You have to do something about that _Count Brooke_.”

 

The click of my tongue sounds extremely loud in the silent night and without further warning, Jim left as quietly as he came.

Within three days, Billy Wiggins is kicked out and fired of his duty under the suspicion of theft. Apparently a valuable pocket watch of Count Brooke went missing and was later discovered in Billy’s room. Stealing from a guest. I made sure to show a grand gesture of real anger.

 

One week later, a blonde, young, naive man in his early twenties gets out of the horse carriage outside of the house while I silently watch from the window. Hating him already, trying to rein in my jealousy of his ignorance yet looking forward to finally obtaining my freedom. I could read him in one word:

 

Thief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am extremely sorry for missing an update last week . I hope you guys will forgive. I was sick. Probably won't happen again. Thanks for all the lovely comments on last chapter because I expressed my doubt on my writing ability. You guys are just so lovely. Thanks to Lou and Luna for everything you do. And everyone who comments, leave kudos and encourages me to write this. I love you all. Don't forget to comment. I will be waiting. :D
> 
> Work cited in this chapter:
> 
> #[Justine, or The Misfortunes of Virtue is a 1791 novel by Marquis de Sade.](https://www.uploady.com/#!/download/0Du3ng4RcL8/pLEX_~yZe1Ht5eLi)  
> 


	10. Understanding and being oblivious

He is perfect. Flawless. Just as I wanted. He was very eager to take care of me when I was having a nightmare. Sang a lullaby to comfort me when I demanded. I could really appreciate the behavior if he was not actually a thief just pretending to get a fistful of my fortune.

 

He is also naive. So fitting for the scheme of things to come.

 

I find his hands shaking when he delivers me the letter from Moriarty. Eyes directed away from me. Must be scared of the lies pouring from his eyes. _A lying man has difficulties establishing eye contact_. I read him in a moment. Poor, may have been malnourished during childhood; poverty has left an impression on all of him, his sunken eyes show the hardship he’s endured yet his posture is charged with strength and determination. Hardship... I mean theft. But still. His overall appearance is agreeable. From his sandy hair, hard lines and stature, he is quite handsome - quite a bit. Which is a perplexing thought in itself as it squirms its way into my mind and delivers a flutter into somewhere deep within me.

 

Bringing my attention back to the letter, I open it and the first few lines are enough for now.

 

“This is John. John Watson. Or as he will introduce himself. Hamish Watson. Just as you demanded. He is a cunning thief. Do not worry. He is illiterate and will be unable to read this letter but probably will lie if you tell him to read. And show him your valuables at every chance you get.”

 

I decide to test the thief.

 

“Will you read this letter aloud for me please? I have been reading since the morning. I have a headache.”

 

I close my eyes to show the pain which is not really present at the moment. I have become a master at masking my real emotions and I doubt it will take much for this interloper to be fooled.

 

I recognise his tactic when he tries to avoid it by using unnecessary moronic laughing and excuses but when I insist with the voice I mastered over my servants throughout years - he obliges. He starts to ‘read’, making up words from thin air, clumsily trying to fabricate the contents of the letter.

 

Ah, liar. To what extent will he go to deceive me? He thinks himself as clever. How ironic.

But suddenly he stops in the middle of his mock reading and goes silent for a small moment, taking a shaky breath in before confessing.

 

“I cannot read, Sir.”

 

That is… quite odd. The data I started to gather suddenly has an unexpected addition.

He could have lied and it would not matter. He could have read the entire letter pretending to read and I would just be sure of what I knew anyway but his admission was something that I had not anticipated. Very odd indeed. Surprising.

 

“You can steal from me, even swear in front of me but there is only one thing I want from you. Never lie to me Watson.” I say to him. For a moment I think I see a flash of uncertainty on his face but it disappears just as fast. He nods his head and agrees quickly.

 

Ah. Liar. Or not. My doubts seem to be confirmed through his willingness to lie and I know he is here to steal of course but there’s something about him…

 

**

 

He is more foolish than I thought. So gullible. I don't know what Jim instructed him to do but he seems in quite a hurry to plant in my head the idea of the beauty of the Count’s sister. He is determined but his insinuations are ridiculous. I keep silent to keep the impression of agreement. He thinks I agree. That is the plan.

 

I enjoy his stupid attempt to hide the loss of his shoe. Like I, the most observant person, would miss it. As I said - foolish. But really, I cannot blame him. I have been fooling everyone in this house for a long time now. I am preparing and nurturing a grand scheme in front of everyone’s nose and no one has a hint of an idea.

 

His eyes go wide when I show him my shoes and offer him to choose a pair. I can see gluttony reflected in his pupils, greed dripping from his face, consuming every muscle.

 

Greedy bastard.

 

In other matters, the shoe stealing incident cannot be left loose. It is just another example of the alienation I experience in this wretched household. I gather the servants before going to library for my session, they all stand in a line in front of me. I am the serpent. I am always the serpent; calculating, venomous and phobia inducing. They hate me but fear me more.

 

“Who stole his shoe?”

 

My voice holds no room for disobedience and I see them trembling before me. But one jaw is stern and fearless and all the eyes turn to him.

 

I grab Anderson by his hair and slap him hard. He falls like a twig in front of me.

My vision is tainted crimson for a small moment, the anger that rarely surfaces shows a glimpse, vibrating within my muscles and poised for attack. The anger of losing my chance of a lifetime by the hands of a jealous servant almost consumes me but I come back to myself in a second. I look at the crowd in front of me, making sure I have their full attention while radiating dominance in my posture and voice.

 

“If he runs away and the cause behind that is because any of you, I will strip each one of you naked and kick you out of the house. I will make sure of that. Understood?”

 

The crowd nods their heads in unison, even Anderson nods his head enthusiastically from where he is on the ground.

 

I glare at them once again for the last time and start walking towards the library. I might be late already.

 

Cataloging books is tiring work but it is at least better than reading the meaningless filth Uncle forces me to. I keep getting distracted again and again. I am so scared. And I am so curious about the thief who is suddenly in my life. My mind continues to analyse our recent interactions, searching for something to make sense, grasping at this new addition to my life, trying to find a way to unravel the mystery of this man.

 

I am curious about everyone and everything, am I not? There is no difference this time. I keep trying to convince myself that this is true.

 

But there is something about him. Something.

 

**

 

I experienced a real nightmare that night, induced by the fear of the risk I am taking. The fear of dealing with devil. Yes, I knew by his eyes that night, underneath the demeanor that Moriarty holds is a simple man. With the casual way he stated the plan that he wanted to kill me, I knew who I was dealing with. He may be simple but that does not mean he isn’t dangerous. I’m still reluctant about the plan but sometimes dealing with the devil is the only way to get out of another hell. And I am not too innocent myself.

 

I saw my aunt in my dream that night; all beautiful and divine, hanging dead from the tree branch. It was snowing. Her wedding dress flowing gracefully as it camouflages itself in the barrage of white. I walked towards her, letting the snow swallow my feet, the closer I got, the clearer the picture of her empty expression and limp body, the ice upon her face encrusting her, encasing her…

 

And suddenly I was falling. Falling fast and deep. My lungs fill from the snow and water, my body asphyxiating in pain and from far away I heard my uncle laughing at me. His voice, a loud echo in my ears.

 

That’s when I might have screamed and before I even managed to take another breath, I found two hands. Brushing over my hair, my trembling shoulders. Those two hands gave me my medicine, sat beside me until I could breathe by myself, lay beside me when I demanded and sang me a lullaby when I wanted. It felt so oddly familiar although it should not have. It felt comforting when it should have been uncomfortable. The low class London accent mixed with his low, gentle voice reminded me of something long forgotten. It was absurd. But somehow it felt like a dream I used to have or the dreams I used to live in. Where a pair of soft hands would caress my face and sing tirelessly beside me until I fell asleep. These new hands were not soft, they were broad and calloused and strong. Neither was his voice sweet like honey but low, sticky like treacle and resonating with compassion.

 

But there is something about them, about him that I just can’t figure out.

 

Curiosity killed the cat and I am so very inquisitive, it’s in my nature. The unknown haunts me and I constantly strive to remedy that. I just don’t know what it is about him and I don’t like not knowing. I just don’t know. Just like I don’t know what’s in the small, metal safe in Uncle’s library. Cannot be any of his precious books, he would not keep those in a box. He likes to display his possessions. I would know as I am one of them.

 

I see him standing in the library door after uncle is done with his shouting. I see him trying to hide his boyish smile after Uncle goes back to his work. Apparently he is familiar with getting rebuked and finds it amusing.

 

Why does it all remind me of myself? Years and years of getting slapped for the wrong pronunciation or being starved for setting fire to my bedroom carpet. I found my punishments rather amusing. Laughed every time.

 

But John Watson laughs at everything. He laughs when he gets shouted at. He laughs when two birds quarrel in the garden. He laughed when Anderson fell from the new horse. I have not heard anyone laugh in this house like that for years. Sometimes I watch him as his laughter takes over him, almost visually bubbling up inside his chest, his mouth wide caught up in a bright smile as his teeth show. He’ll double over with his arms, _strong, muscular, gentle_ and hold his stomach as he revels in his merriment and he’ll often look at me with stormy eyes, a twinkle reflected in a vast dark ocean, guiding me like a lighthouse to safety and before I notice I’ll often find that I’m smiling back at him.

 

**

 

Jim should have told me that he is too lively. Or maybe I should have specified someone less lively. Not that I don't like it, not that there’s consequences either way in my liking or not liking it.

But it is quite distracting. Yes, just distracting. There is nothing else to it.

 

No, I don't have a sudden want to wipe his tears when he cries hearing my music. Nor do I want to hold him when there is sorrow evident on his face. His facial expressions give away his thoughts sometimes, the lines on his face and his eyes vivid with emotion.

 

There is something in the way he looks at me. The way his eyes follow me everywhere. I know he is just keeping an eye on me. I know it. But sometimes, some little moments, they feel like something else.

 

I did not mean to but somehow the nightmares increase. So we agree that he will sleep beside me. God, I was reluctant. One, he is a traitor and two, I am constantly having conflicting thoughts about him.

 

But it works miraculously. He sleeps by my side and the nightmares gradually thin away. Slinking back and disappearing like smoke tendrils.

 

He has nothing to do with it, I tell myself.

 

Why does he insist me to eat? Wiggins never cared if I ate my meal or not. No one actually ever cared. Some days my meals just sat upon the table and I didn't touch anything the whole day. Nobody would ask _why_ I didn't eat. He should have cared less because he is practically here intending to send me to my death so that he can pocket my valuables.

 

Then why?

 

Then why does he sit in front of me with the plate, lifting up a spoonful of food in front of my lips? He waits. I can taste his patience. One minute passes and the next one as well. The broth in the spoon gets cold and he scoops up another warm spoonful.

 

“Eat.” He says calmly.

 

“Why should I?” I ask. The challenge is not intended. It is my normal state. Questioning everything.

 

“Because I am telling you so.”

 

His voice is still calm. Why is he even putting up with me? Is he that good a fraud? Is all of this just an act? The command does not sound condescending at all. But it should have.

 

But there is something in him. Something behind this fathomless blue eyes. Hidden away from prying eyes.

 

 _Fathomless?_ What nonsense I am even talking about?

 

Nobody in this house has ever has paid attention at all. Everyone treated me like a poisonous serpent who is only fun to poke at from a distance, gathering to whisper to each other and watch as I struck out mercilessly. Ah, that was good for me mostly because after aunt’s death, I did not feel like ever getting attached to anyone else ever again. Nor did I have any reason. People were not my area. Books were. Not all the books and certainly not the ones I loathe to read.

 

I was not thinking enough. About anything at all when I told him that I will teach him to read. I wasn’t thinking about touching his lips, wanting to test how soft they were, whether I could feel how the words affected his voice. No, it was not my business and I definitely was _not_ thinking.

 

But I did. And I told him how I was expecting him to read as he talks. How he is so brutal in his words and how I have an urge to touch his lips and feel the words vibrate through my finger when he talks in his common London accent. His lips, shining wet from his tongue continually swiping over it… their texture.

 

I don’t think I said the last part out loud. I hope I did not. But I did something outrageous. I touched his lips with my fingers.

 

Warm. Soft. Moist. Thin. Satin.

 

_“As a pomegranate, cut in twain”_

 

I closed my eyes and did not look back. My fingertips tingling with the soft touch.

Why am I developing something for the person who has come to destroy me?

Those feelings have a name. I think they do. I Just don’t want to admit it, I don’t know what it should feel like.

 

**

 

Sometimes it's much too intolerable and I cannot fathom why.

 

Like the times he puts my clothes on me. His fingers brush the nape of my neck, the way he stands on tiptoes to adjust my coat collar, it's distracting. There are faults in his methods. Which is not surprising. But I, who used to shout at Wiggins if there was one wrong fold in my scarf, I do not mind when now, the thief makes at least three faults on average while dressing me.

 

When he puts the gloves on my hands carefully, I steal glances at him. He bites his thin lips in concentration. Like I will break if he puts the gloves on forcefully. Should I whisper in his ears that I am not fragile? Or is that considered too intimate?

 

My breath gets lost in the quiet moonlight at night. He never hears them. Everyday, something grows in the little corner of my heart, the one which does not exist anymore. I fervently deny its existence.

 

I will start teaching him to read today. This will be a simple task.

I will not show that my heart is beating frantically when I place my hand on his to guide him through the pages. I will not let that thief know that my hand is shaking when he flutters his eyes attempting to understand the words. I will not let that man suspect I am looking at the small fold in between his eyebrows that forms when he concentrates.

 

It will be simple. I desperately wish it to be.

 

I don't listen to his steady breaths in the night. It is accidental. Nor that it helps me sleep. That's absurd. I don't have any urges to get closer to him and feel his damp breath on my face while falling asleep.

 

 _Urges_. I don't have urges. I never did. I will not. This body has always been a transport. Uncle made sure of that.

 

But from the past few days, I am not so sure of that anymore. No matter how much I try to tell myself. I know I am not the same person I used to be. A thief threw a stone and created ripples in the false calm I made around myself.

 

Those books in Uncle’s library suddenly started to make sense to me. Reading has been a duty to me for the past ten years but with the touch of some wizard’s magic wand, some of it started to come haunt my thoughts, consuming my dreams. It is very welcome and unwelcome.

 

The men and women in those books never had faces in my thoughts. I never felt the need to put faces on them but it happened out of nowhere. I wanted to hate it. Almost.

 

 **_"I must kiss this darling jewel!" he exclaimed._ ** ****_  
_ ****_  
_ **_Then going on his knees before me, he put my prick in his mouth and_ ** ****_  
_ **_sucked me most lusciously, whilst with one hand passed under my bottom_ ** ****_  
_ **_he positioned me in the most delightful manner possible, and when the_ ** ****_  
_ **_crisis came in a few minutes he swallowed every drop with the greatest_ ** **_  
_ ** ******_possible relish."_**

 

I started to break into a sweat in the middle of the reading. I am scared because the words that once had no meaning for me, the words that manifested no images in my brain, suddenly presented themselves in vivid pictures. There were just two humans in it. Me and a man. His hair golden like sun. Eyes blue like sapphire. He held me close. Murmured sweet words in my ear. Kissed me so intensely that I saw God himself and showed me things I never knew about.

 

I shut the door close that night. Making my intention clear that I needed to be left alone. He asked for me a couple of times, to make sure if I will be alright alone.

 

Alone is what I have, alone has always protected me. But that was before he came.

 

I spent hours that night debating whether I should open that door and let him show me all the things he knows. I know he does.

 

Sitting in the bed for the better half of an hour I came to the conclusion that I am sinking. Without any assurance of ever getting to my destination or the cause of my sinking to hold me up.

 

**

 

 

It’s too intolerable sometimes. Just like this morning was.

 

I closed my eyes and eyes and lost myself in his reading. There should be nothing attractive in his stuttered reading or in the way he misses the h’s, although I have taught him not to, or the way he takes unnecessary breaths in places and sometimes doesn’t even puts gap between words while reading. All of those aspects should be utterly unattractive in my measures. Definitely not the way I have been taught to read.

But it isn’t.

 

I adore the way he sometimes skips difficult words. The way he struggles to read. He wants to learn. After he is done I will stand behind him and tell him the right pronunciation and he will know that I know. I know he skipped and he’ll know I noticed.

 

But what was it even supposed to mean when he said that is how he sees me?

 

I panicked instantly and did not let him complete the sentence. Instead I rushed out of the room and realized this has been a bit of a stupid decision. God knows what he will think of me.

When my beating heart has stilled a bit I try to rationalize my thoughts. I slip into the part of the garden where I sometimes come to think by myself. It’s a little shaded part, free from direct sunlight. Isolated and cold, neglected for the most part. Like me. I feel at home here.

 

Is he that good of an actor? What would he even gain from faking emotion towards me?

 

Why don’t I take an extreme test? To reach a conclusion towards my hopeful hypothesis.

 

I practise how I should ask him to teach me to waltz without making him suspicious.

 

“I want to dance with you?” _Too much._

 

“Teach me.” Maybe that will work.

 

I have the conversation a thousand times over in my head while riding my horse. I come back to my room and send people to find him. Yes, he is nowhere to be seen. I should demand to know why.

 

But as soon as he stands in my door I forget to demand, forget everything surrounding us. Instead I take his hands in mine, bare skin on skin and ask him to teach me to waltz.

Asking him to dance with me is not a very thoughtful decision. My steps certainly give away the novice image I wanted to maintain but I am desperate. I am smiling too much, more than necessary and looking very enthusiastic. Trying to.

 

But he is holding me close and I have lowered my face at some point of the dance and I have clutched him too close. His breath is over my face and the music does not exist anywhere anymore. It’s just a space without any beginning or end with just the two of us in the middle. I can feel his beating heart.

 

Will it hurt if I open my heart a little? The heart I had no idea I had inside me?

 

I tell him how blue his eyes are and see his pupils darken. His mouth agape.

I open my mouth to tell him how I never felt like this towards anyone. How I feel for him.

How I fell for him.

 

But the universe does not let me.

 

Like an omen, the letter arrives and my heart sinks down. Goes back to that little darkness it had always lived in, leaving trails of blood around everywhere. Can he see the blood?

I tear the envelope. And the letters probe at my eye.

 

**_"Dear Mr. Scott,_ **

**_We are arriving tomorrow at noon. Hope you are enjoying your naive plaything.”_ **

 

I can't read further.Everything does not matter anymore. The game is afoot. All the players are arriving soon.

 

I steal a glance at the thief, the pawn in the unfortunate game he got tricked into.

 

The last rays of the sun reflect on his hair. And I want to forget everything and press my lips upon the head of that _plaything._

 

 _"Yes, he was certainly_  
_wonderfully handsome, with his finely-curved scarlet lips,_  
_his frank blue eyes, his crisp gold hair."_

 

He is perfect. In every way I never wanted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look who is in love haha.  
> I hope you guys are still enjoying. I am enjoying writing this :D Lemme know what you think. I will be waiting as usual for your wonderful responses. Thanks to everyone.  
> Works cited in this chapter:
> 
> 1)Oscar Wilde — La Bella Donna della Mia Mente.  
> 2)[The Sins of the Cities of the Plain, Jack Saul (1881)](http://www.gutenberg.org/files/53964/53964-h/53964-h.htm)  
> 3)[The Picture of Dorian Gray, by Oscar Wilde (1890)](http://www.planetpublish.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/11/The_Picture_of_Dorian_Gray_NT.pdf)  
> 


	11. The secrets and the truth

 

What is the definition of being naked? Is it just physical? To become bare? Getting rid of the clothes on your body, one by one to reveal the skin underneath? What is skin? Nothing but a sack containing a human; a case for holding blood, muscles and nerves. What could be attractive about it? I have always wondered.

 

I have been naked like that, hundreds of times. In front of many men. Ten, twenty. 

Men, just like me. Everyone with the same body parts, most aroused to see me and hear me. I stood in front of them naked, I sat in front of them naked, I lay in front of them naked but I never felt anything. Never wanted to know how they reacted. Never looked back at them while they devoured me with their greedy eyes, compensating for not getting to touch me in all the ways that they wanted.

 

But I don’t think that is the only interpretation of being naked. The realization is slowly dawning on me.

 

Naked is what I am now. Sitting in fragrant, warm water without one single piece of clothing on me while he sits on the edge of the tub and slowly starts to turn red. What is that particular shade of colour? Scarlet; the pigment of his skin and its way of flushing brightly with the exposed blood vessels is something to be studied intensely. The shade is quite pleasing against his complexion. 

 

Without a doubt, I have never felt naked when people looked at me; leering men inspecting my stripped body underneath harsh lighting but now I am feeling naked when a boyish man is having trouble diverting his eyes from me, trying to look and to not look at the same time. I can read him like an open book. It's not like I don't know what I look like, I know what effect I have on people but the way he is responding, it's  _ new _ .  Everyone looked shamelessly, never sparing a thought towards me and here he is trying to not look at my bare body to protect my dignity. Oh, if only he knew the whole of it.

 

It’s making me self conscious. Suddenly, I am concerned about what I look like. Concerned about my bodily responses. Will he be able to see how my body reacts to him? How does he feel about how I look? Can he tell that my pale flesh has been marred on numerous occasions, despite the fact that Uncle takes great care to ensure I’m never left too marked? Does he want to touch me or is this still all an elaborate act?

 

My spiralling thoughts are suddenly derailed when a troubling tooth cuts my cheek. He smiles and announces he’ll return quickly, then he comes back with a remedy and suddenly I have never felt more naked or vulnerable. His gaze and his touch stripping away all the barriers I have ever built. His hand cradling my cheek. One finger inside my mouth; I taste the tang of copper from the small cut, iron from the thimble and salt from him. His fingers rub slowly, a constant rhythm brushing the warmth in my mouth. His cold finger is getting warmer with every second and I have an intense desire to wrap my tongue around the finger - over all his fingers. I want to suck them one by one, coat them with my saliva until... I don't know, maybe until his gaze is on me, until the thing that is clear in his eyes manifests physically. Until his mouth, which is closing inch by inch gets closer and there is no space left. Until he crashes his lips against mine and kisses me so that I cannot breathe anymore. Until both of us understand every fibre of our beings and what each of us tastes like. I want him to place his hand over every surface of my body and explore me until I am breathless, brainless and shapeless in the water.

 

Instead, I just let him fuck my mouth with his thumb. I don't wrap my tongue around his finger like I intended to do first. I just let his breath brush over my face. My mouth fills up with saliva when his eyes roam around the parts of my body which are still visible over water. I don't know what does it, how the spell breaks but before that I could see my reflection in the dark pools of his fathomless eyes. Yes, fathomless. They remind me of a book I read about the darkness and mysteries lying under the ocean. No one knows what is under them, yet they are filled with secrets and fascination. I have the same affliction towards him; I don't know what he is or why he is but I need to find out. 

 

When he takes his thumb out of mouth, it takes a large part of my willpower to not give it a suck, to relish the sound of the soft slurp it could make. I am almost sure he would not mind. But I have to make sure that he does not know that I don't mind.

 

So I don't. When he puts the thimble back in his pocket, I ask him innocently if he would like to get in the tub as well - as he likes the smell of the rose water so much.

 

“You are asking me to get into the tub with you?” His eyes go wide. 

 

“Mmm, yes.” I say with my tongue massaging over the cut in my mouth. I can still taste his skin.

 

“I think you like how it smells... so,” I retract my stretched legs to make room. “come on in.”

 

He sits on the edge of the tub for a moment, considering everything I suppose. I hide a grin.

 

“I've already taken a bath, Sir. You continue.” 

 

He stands up and smiles at me. My ears go red because my main intention was to watch him get undressed. I want to follow the brawn of his muscles down his body and commit each cell of skin to my memory. Does he know that? Can he tell what I am thinking? 

 

No, of course not. That does not fit with the William he knows. That's Sherlock. And he is unfamiliar with Sherlock.

 

Sherlock did try his best.

 

**

 

I struggle to not to twist my face when I hear the carriages stopping outside the Holmes mansion. Perhaps, I could not succeed as I intended to?

 

I am not used to interacting with others, it is tiresome and boring and I found the best way to survive being constantly scrutinized was for most people to become faceless, thus, not seeing people for a long time is a blessing and a curse, it makes you forget how vicious they really are. 

 

I kind of forgot what Moriarty looks like; two factors worked behind that, firstly, I am not that fond of him, so I made no attempt to try to remember his appearance and secondly, someone around me made me forget that there was a bigger plan brewing behind soft touches and wandering eyes. John (or Hamish, rather) still does not know about it and I feel a twinge of guilt for keeping it disclosed from him.

 

But here Moriarty is, sitting in front of me, asking for another slice of pudding. There is Irene, the woman who is supposedly going to be my wife for a short period of time and with whom I have to put up an act of irrevocably falling in love with. It is a neat plan. I’m supposed to be a little bit relieved now they are here.

 

But instead, the dinner feels like dirt and I cannot wait until it is over. I roll my eyes when Irene throws a look at me over her wine glass, Jim delivers a smile and the only man who can soothe my eyes at the moment is not inside the room anymore, he is waiting outside.

 

So I drink more wine than I was supposed to and end up a little bit disoriented on Watson's shoulder.

 

My mind sometimes works so perfectly without me knowing or realizing. It is quite astonishing. While I am still seeing everything in double, I find myself in the closet searching for clothes that might fit him. I scan the array of fabrics quickly, taking into consideration which colour combinations would bring his coruscated eyes to attention better and what seam lines would do his stature and strength justice.

 

I am just merely showing him my valuables as Jim instructed me. I assure myself.

 

He throws a wave of protest when he realizes I am trying to dress him up. Protesting means nothing to me and anyway he is just pretending to not like it, he likes the valuable clothes. I don’t blame him.

 

And by jove, he looks impeccably handsome. The silks bring out the blue in his eyes. The golden embroidery makes his hair glow, as if he were not striking enough already. I am certain that the heroines in novels usually fall for these types of men. That leaves me somewhere. A heroine? What am I? Damsel in distress? Not really.

 

Wine does make people do uncertain things and say things that are not meant to see the daylight or reach human ears.

 

I am human. I am no different and I tell him before I realize I am telling him something - about the connection of the hearts of two people or something along the lines of that.

 

The lamps are not very bright, also my vision is quite blurry but I see a faint pink arising in his cheeks. God, have I mentioned that he looks absolutely delectable?

 

“Miss Brooke looks perfect beside you. Certainly a face you will want to see whenever you close your eyes.”

 

For the love of all the holy things in this world. Why is he like this? I am trying and he is just making this difficult. What am I trying for? Not sure, really. I don't think I have thought about this thoroughly.

 

I shove everything aside for later. Later. I will think about everything later. Very soon. I promise myself.

 

But right now he needs to know that I am talking about him. I sigh heavily. 

 

“I was not talking about Miss Brooke, Watson.”  I meet his gaze in the mirror.

 

The blush deepens, now definitely scarlet and I have a wanting inside me - to touch his cheek with my fingertips and feel the heat, maybe taste his skin. 

 

The thought makes me freeze. What is wrong with my brain?

 

I don't move when he turns around and starts unbuttoning my coat hastily.

 

No, I certainly did not want him to undress me because my fingers are unstable. I never let him undress me completely. That was not my intention.

 

But he does. And who am I to stop those fingers.

 

His mouth falls open a little. An expression I have seen quite some times in my “admirers”. It should have made me disgusted but his expression, mixed with tenderness and awe is not the same as it was with those men. There is a tinge of devotion reflected under those eyelashes or perhaps I am entirely imagining this.

 

Surprisingly, the confusion does not stop me. I enjoy it. The thrill of blood rushing through my veins, the blood vessels flooding open making my cheeks warm. I am blushing too. Completely and entirely unintentional but that is the problem with him, his mere presence makes me do things that were in no means normal territory for me. 

 

Because I don't have urges. That is an established fact. 

 

But the problem lies elsewhere, the problem is this human whom I relieve from the burden of the silks and satin and strip him down naked to his waist.

 

And Lord, have mercy. Who knew? I could only deduce but that does not come anywhere close because his body is a story itself; sinew curves his shoulders and arms, he is strong - stronger than he looks, scars scattered, starting from small to long - faint, old, endured through time, not covering all of his skin but some of it and the most prominent one is a deep wound in his left shoulder - looks precisely made by a blade. The tissues around it wrinkled and marred, most likely an infection. Given his poor state and upbringing, he is lucky that he is alive or that he still has his arm. 

 

I watch as I see him deflate a little inside and the red in his face is now of embarrassment. He is mortified because I am looking at that scar but he is not bright enough to deduce my intentions; that I am not disgusted by it, I am intrigued. I want to touch it with my hands and catalogue it, much like this morning when I did with my tongue and his thumb.

 

I don't want to startle him, so I don't tell him that I know that the wound is from a little rusty blade, I ask and he confirms, still mortified.

 

I wish I could kiss his wound, peppering kisses right over it and let him know how I am not appalled, not disgusted, just curious.

 

But that is an absurd thought given the situation. So I just let him to put my nightshirt on me hastily. We don't talk for the rest of the night. His breathing eventually slows down steadily while I try to ignore the warmth coiling in my abdomen. It means nothing. This is transport. A thief means nothing. Just a pawn and my only bet out of this hell. 

_ I have been half in love with easeful Death, _

_ Call'd him soft names in many a musèd rhyme, _

_ To take into the air my quiet breath; _

  
  


I don't look at his face when I not so subtly tell him about a new addition in my routine - discussions of literature with Irene. I don't know if he is smiling to be succeeding in his work or making a grim face he usually makes whenever he sees anyone except me. I don't look because I don't want to and I don't care about what he thinks. I most certainly don't.

  
  


**

  
  


It takes Watson exactly thirty seconds to reach the distance from the house (and whatever errand Jim sent him to do) to the tree which she and I are sitting under.

 

_ She  _ is Irene; currently talking about Keats’ poems in a very enthusiastic and cheerful manner to put on a show, she seems to be quite good at it. Practised to talk with men over the years. I know a practised attitude when I see one. It is like being an addict. Or a thief. Takes one to know one. Her handmaiden, a lovely but grim faced woman is sitting away, looking at the rose bush behind the oak trees.

 

We talked in hushed tones about how I need to be slow in the process of acting of falling in love with her. If I do it too rapidly, it will be suspicious. Irene laughed loudly at intervals to make the impression that we were talking about poetry.

 

“So what I am trying to tell you is, don’t fall in love with me easily. Give it time. You are supposed to be reserved and shy. I am a Londoner, I have the novelty of being bold in romance, even if I am a woman.” 

 

“You are not eighteen years old. Definitely not. What will it be? Over twenty-one, I guess?”

 

I interrupt her and she stops mid sentence but her eyes don’t show much of a surprise.

 

“Nice guess there, my Lord.” A crooked grin manifests on her lips. 

 

“You are brighter than I thought. What gave me away? My wisdom?” She asks wiggling her eyebrows in a salacious manner.

 

“Don’t be absurd. You are quite bright yourself but of course not more so than me. And wisdom is not really a measurement of age, that would mean I am older than the whole household here. No, it’s in your eyes. You are not as young as Moriarty claimed you to be and also women often lie about their age. I just took a chance.”

 

“Impressive.” She chuckles at my words. 

 

“Not polite but yes, impressive. I expected you to be cunning when Moriarty explained to me the plan and such. You planned the whole replacement concept but I did not expect you to be this bright and intelligent.” She shakes her head. 

 

“Beyond your age, real pity that a bright young thing like you has lived their days in this gloomy place.” 

 

Her eyes glisten in the sunlight. Is that a bit of empathy? I don’t expect that, I do not welcome that.

 

But the thing that is bugging me the most about her is the  _ why? _ Why did she agree to this? That is the mystery. I do not like not knowing about the people I am doing business with nor do I like too much mystery in one place at one time.

 

So I ask her. Not expecting the truth.

 

“What does he have on you?”

 

She stops in the middle of saying something, might have been important but her face turned serious. Don’t care. There is a continuous itch inside my skin when I don’t know the whole of a person. That itch has already been a permanent source courtesy of someone who is currently looking at a bird’s nest, standing at a distance of exactly twenty feet from me. 

 

“Pardon?” Irene smiles. She is surprised but not startled.

 

“I don’t like repeating myself but I am doing it anyway. I am asking what does Moriarty have on you?”

 

Her expression is suddenly cautious, not to be conceived by the naked eye but my eyes are not like everyone else's’. I can see the minute tells that she displays showing that I have struck a nerve.

 

“Who said he has something on me?”

 

“I am saying that because I know you don’t need the money and you are not taking any money for doing this.”

 

Her face now goes visibly tense.

 

“You are just guessing that.” She tries to smile weakly, trying to dismiss the truth. It’s quite hilarious but expected, she doesn’t know Sherlock.

 

“I don’t guess, Miss Adler. I observe. I deduce.” I smile at her.

 

“What did you deduce then?”

 

“That you are rich, the jewellery you have on is real and you own them; evident from how you are comfortable with all of it - same goes for all the silks and expensive fabrics. You might argue that you recently fell into poverty but there is no visible sign of stress around your face or in your body language, you are not even stressed about this task and you smile sometimes unknowingly to yourself, which makes me think that this job, this whole fake marriage and the aftermath is actually going to be liberating for you in some way.”

 

I see her shift uncomfortably in her seat from the corner of my eyes. Positive signs all over her face. I am getting it right, like always, so I continue talking. 

 

“So Miss Adler, if it is not money, what can it be? It can only be blackmail. He is making you perform this deed in assurance of a type of freedom - a future where you are free of threat. Now, enlighten me, what does a man like Moriarty have on you which is so threatening that you decide to come out of your usual habitat and join in on a con? How precious is this freedom? I am extremely curious.”

 

Instead of the initial uneasiness in her eyes, I see calm now. She smiles brightly at me then breaks into loud laughter. Loud enough to startle me and the two other humans in the vicinity.

 

She stops like she is losing breath and then murmurs. 

 

“I am not laughing at you. I am pretending to laugh at your words. He is watching, facade, remember?”

 

Yes, facade. Two sets of eyes look away from us when Irene leans in a little closer.

 

“God, you are a genius, my Lord. Got everything spot on but you are still young and naive in some areas in life. I don’t expect you to understand why I am doing what I am doing.”

 

I am at the edge of my patience and it looks like she will not disclose anything.

 

“What is it?” I am suddenly tired and bored of everything.

 

“Dangerous disadvantage.” A glint passes in her eyes and she looks up to her handmaiden, calling her name.

 

“Kate.”

 

Her handmaiden looks up from plucking a rose.

 

“I think it will rain. Let us go back to my room.” Irene stands up, addressing the sentence at Kate. I stand up as well.

 

“It was one of the nicest evenings I’ve ever had, my Lord.” Her voice is soft and high, so that Watson can hear her clearly.

 

I kiss her hand and then she walks away with her handmaiden. Then and then only do I dare to look at the man standing in the way of the setting sun. His hair blazes golden like fire, his blue eyes glow as if they are the lights reflecting on water. Is that water?

 

What has gotten into him? He is doing everything loudly. Stomps around my room doing his chores. He does not even realize how loud he is. He gets startled by his own sounds sometimes. 

 

He suddenly stopped laying beside me at night and the way he literally walks like an enraged animal the whole day, makes me scared. I did not ask him why he is not sleeping beside me nor do I request him because this is what should happen, isn’t it? Supposedly I will require some privacy after a woman is coming into my life.

 

But it is not convenient nor I am liking it because neither of us are sleeping. 

 

I look at his room through that hidden keyhole at night and he is just sitting in there, looking at the burning candle. Unblinking, like a ghost, like someone who is lost. My heart does this unusual thing where it aches like it will break away into tiny pieces.

 

Whenever he sees Moriarty or Irene close to me; Irene trying to be intimate or when I am trying my best to make the impression of a smitten man, his eyes always say one thing.

 

_ I despise you. _

 

**

 

Some days have a feeling, a certain ambience; you wake up in the morning and realize that it is going to be a good day or an utterly bad day. I felt the latter waking up today.

 

It was the usual morning stroll in the garden. I could feel two sets of eyes behind me, burning into the back of my skull when Irene held my hand.

 

We come upon a clearing within the trees and as soon as Moriarty orders Watson to fetch food in the main house, the atmosphere feels ominous.

 

“Be intimate.” He gives a nod of his hat and walks slowly towards the main house watching Watson with narrowed eyes.

 

He left out most of the words.

 

_ Be intimate so when Watson comes back he is convinced of the relationship between you two. _

 

I don’t want to. I don’t want that. Not with her. 

 

“We can kiss.” 

 

Irene makes a not so enthusiastic face standing under the shadow of the giant oak we are sitting under.

 

“I don’t feel comfortable with that.” Something churns inside my stomach, leaving a bitter taste in the back of my throat. 

 

“Nor I am, my Lord. Don’t worry, I have no interest in you. Not even physically. You are free to imagine someone else, just as I will do.” 

 

Her eyes flicker to the path where her handmaiden has vanished down some moments ago.

A loud gait is heard clearly on the pebbled path. Someone almost running, getting closer. I know the footsteps, they are always around me.

 

I don’t think twice. I close my eyes in a hurry and kiss her painted lips.

 

It’s uncomfortable and unfair. 

I did not wish my first kiss to be like this. I cannot even imagine anything. It just makes me disgusted, like I am committing the worst crime possible. I try to ensure my facial expression doesn’t give away my demeanor and send my mind to the place I go when I usually attend my readings with Uncle. 

 

I don’t know what startled me the most. The way the footsteps came to a sudden hitch or the loud, painful gasp coming from his direction or the sounds of items falling into the dirt. I open my eyes to see wide, blue eyes looking at me with horror in them. Like they had just witnessed someone die in front of their eyes.

 

He starts to walk backwards keeping eye contact with me for a few seconds that feel like minutes and then turns back around in military fashion. And then runs like some wild animal is chasing him.

 

In a reflex, I break the embrace and start to follow him but two delicate hands stop me.

 

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, do you?”

 

“Why not?” I snap at her. 

 

My heart is trying to pry itself out of my ribcage and this uneasy sense is clouding my brain. I have done something I should not have done. I have betrayed and have committed something unforgivable.

 

Wait.

What?

What betrayal? 

What forgiveness?

 

“Dangerous disadvantage, Mr.Scott.” She is still smiling at me, placating me like I am a stupid child.

 

“Do not talk to me in riddles. I am not a child.” 

 

“I guess you are not but you are not as bright as I thought, either.” She sighs.

 

“Please get to the point.” 

 

I grit my teeth in impatience. What is the matter with her and her fondness of playing with words? I am not supposed to be here. I am supposed to follow him and tell him that… I don’t know…  _ Something. _

 

“Somebody loves you.” 

 

Irene smiles wide at me. The proud smile of solving a puzzle before the one for whom it was supposed to be for.

 

“Nonsense.” I snort at her words, trying to dismiss the notion because what I have avoided all along myself, she just said aloud.

 

“Be as cocky as you want. Takes one to know one, my Lord. Love is a dangerous disadvantage. Trust me when I say I know better than you.” 

 

Her proud smile falters, changing into a fond expression.

 

**_Doubt thou the stars are fire;_ **

**_Doubt that the sun doth move;_ **

**_Doubt truth to be a liar;_ **

**_But never doubt I love._ **

  
  


How utterly inconvenient.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am shit with schedules tbh. So I am deciding to update regularly but I am not fixing a day :p. And also You might have noticed that there is now a chapter number in place of question mark. I hope you like this chapter as well. :D Will be dying for comments. Lots of thanks to everyone again. You all are so kind to me.


	12. Flesh and soul

I walk the path from the garden in a haze, a warmth blossoming inside my chest; a feeling I have never felt before, something I did not know I would ever have or come across. He is jealous. Where does jealousy come from? What is there to be jealous of?

 

All I have in my mind now is him. Like a cloud around my soul, waiting on the horizon, waiting to rain at any moment. His gentle touches, the sound of his voice,  the way he looks at me; how am I supposed to ignore all that that? Newton’s first law would assert that every object will remain in one place in a straight line unless compelled to change by the actions of an external force and I’ve definitely received a reaction. How apt, yet it all leads to the same thing:

 

Consequences. But I can forget about that for some time.

 

In the depths inside my mind, something niggles; a continuous chant questioning me, asking  ‘What are you forgetting?’.

 

Who cares?

 

When I come back to my room from the garden, he is nowhere in sight. The adjoining door is closed shut. My heart is thrumming inside my chest. Not trying to reason, not trying to listen. God almighty, I am becoming paranoid that the whole household can hear my heart beating frantically all because of a certain man.

 

And God, did today have to be a reading day? Inconvenient in every way possible but it might have been helpful as well. When I stand in the library in front of the book, I am not within myself; with each word, my mind starts to float. 

 

With each description of physical pleasure, my knees go weak and threaten to give out. It’s him, everywhere is him. It’s his face on the nameless, faceless lover who is caressing the man in the book. It’s his voice in the voiceless screams. It’s him who is whispering in my ears telling how he will love me. It’s his kisses on my face, not in the book. My insides are turning into liquid and I can feel my cheeks flushing furiously. I take a deep breath to collect myself and I don’t know why it is happening but simultaneously, I know why.

  
  


When I come back from library with a throbbing heart and a warmth in my belly, the man who is the cause of all that is nowhere in sight. My room definitely looks and feels much colder without him.

 

Jealous, my God, he is jealous and angry like a child. I don’t blame him. I would have been too.

 

The headache I’ve always complained about is nowhere today, like my body knows what I want, what is unwelcome.

 

I lay down in the lonely, cold bed; crisp sheets against my skin, accentuating the emptiness of the large bed without his presence. Trying to bring my heart to a steady rhythm and mastering a plan of how to make him do what I want without letting him know that I want.

 

Books have always been my friend - my curious nature compelling me to reach out and nurture knowledge, but the exception lies within the books I was forced to read.

 

It will be a beautiful joke if today I seek the help of those books to break the very purpose they were meant for. Why don’t I just use my years of knowledge of giving and receiving pleasures and see where it goes? I ring the bell and he appears, taking quite a long time than usual and arriving with an expression he desperately is trying to pass as nonchalant but I recognize it as fury.

 

“Do you need something?” 

 

He asks in a voice which I do not usually hear from him - annoyance. He has never been annoyed at anything I have done till now. My heart sinks a little at that but I will not lose this. I will get what I want by the end of night. So I play irritated,like I am just annoyed more than him, that I am angry that he was not here to tend my headache like usual, that there are not butterflies inside my stomach fluttering at the very sight of him.

 

We both hate my nightmares, so it’s not surprising that he would be agreeable to share my bed again in spite of his annoyance and anger towards me. We are still apart, not touching but the warmth he is radiating by just existing in the same bed as me, that is enough. That is what this cold bed has always needed. That is what I have needed all along but never knew.

 

Why is the air so thick when I need to breathe more than ever?

He stiffens visibly when I tell him about the marriage proposal. There should have been relief. There should have been the joy of completion of a task he came here for. There isn’t. In the dim light of the lamp, suddenly he looks like a man who lost the ground beneath his feet.

 

I don’t want him to be like that. I want him to be greedy for my fortune. I want him to look at me and be jealous of my wealth. Not be jealous when anyone else is touching me. 

I want to hate him with my heart. So that I don’t have any guilt. 

But I can’t. This thief isn’t letting me. Instead of attempting to steal anything he could easily steal, he is stealing what he should not.

 

He has gotten impossibly still after hearing about the marriage proposal so I shake him to life.

 

“Will you go with me to London? I said I won't go without you.”

 

“Of course I will.”

 

His face wears the expression of horror again when I bring up the kiss with Irene. I feel immensely guilty because he doesn’t even know his pain is becoming apparent in his expressions. He tries to deflect the matter, avoiding it by telling me how he is not the proper person to discuss this with.

 

But Sherlock is adamant. Sherlock will see the end of it. Because Sherlock knows that he is winning.

 

John has licked his lips unknowingly at least five times in the past two minutes, left out shaky breaths over my face, his pupils have dilated leaving behind just a dark perplexing pit. I play patiently and he is mine. For the night? For times after tonight? Do I want to think about it at the moment?

No.

 

I inadvertently blush when I tell him the truth - that I haven’t touched myself. Well, half-truth to be exact because I despised to touch myself; the thought that filthy men lusted upon me, made me hate men more than ever and I have absolutely no interest in women.

 

But this man laying by my side; whose eyes went wide as he learned about my apparent virginity in pleasure, who has not noticed that I have been holding his hand for quite some time by now, that man is extraordinary. He doesn’t know, I won’t tell him that and then perhaps no-one else will know how I feel for him.

 

It’s a blessing that I know how to make men work. What makes them want someone intensely, what makes their desires run wild and how to seduce them. I never imagined I would need to apply these constructs.

 

Maybe I will make it easier for him. Clearly he is still having difficulty admitting his attraction to me; who is nonetheless a man with genitals like him, not the delicate curves and soft breasts he prefers usually.

 

Yes, usually. I know what people like. He likes both the sexes. That is not news to me.

  
  


“Maybe imagine me as any woman you like and show me how you will love her.” 

 

It pains me to just say the words but amuses me the same. As if we both don’t know what we are doing. How naive does he think I am? 

 

After the expected initial denial, he sighs and turns towards me properly.

 

His finger stills over my face, the fingertips warm against my cold skin. I have always been so cold. It’s like being a dead body but here he is, touching my face and the heat from his fingers is seeping into my skin, bringing me to life. I can see his eyes, moving, deciding. I can read in his frowns the number of hurdles he is trying to break right now, the boundary he is going to cross is making him scared. I know because I am here, feeling the same.

 

I don’t know when the battle stops, how he defeats or who he defeats but I know what wins because his warm lips are on mine, his moist breath on my face and I am drowning.

 

I wish it was him who had kissed me first but currently I am not thinking about that. That kiss was not a kiss, more like a uncomfortable section of a strategy but this is not.

 

But why is he just hovering? Why is he still reluctant after I gave him permission?

 

“Please more.”

 

I say in a whisper without even realizing that I’ve said so out loud, although immediately being thankful that I did.

 

He lets go of a breath like there was something still holding him captive inside and the pressure on my lips in the next moment is firm. Real. A kiss.

 

I can not think coherently while he kisses me breathless, nibbles at my lips, dips his tongue inside my mouth. I can’t concentrate on the sounds he is making or my breaths. I might not even be taking them but who really needs to breathe when the man you’ve wanted to touch you is touching you at last. Kissing you like you are the last goblet of water on earth and he is not willing to leave a drop.

 

I know what he is doing. His jealous riddled mind is trying to wipe away the kiss from this morning. He doesn't know that it meant nothing but what he is doing now - that is everything I never knew.

 

The books only talked about how everything felt outside. Never told me how it felt like inside.

That’s why I never knew a kiss feels like this. That a kiss is just not the touch of two lips, just a ritual of physical intimacy.

I didn’t know a kiss has a taste. That a kiss can make you warm, kill you and revive you all together, make you forget your existence, run a shiver through your spine, make you lose your breath, makes you want to sob silently.

 

Maybe it’s not entirely the kiss. Maybe it’s because the man who is prying my mouth open with his tongue, cradling my face so delicately that I am feeling like a glass figurine. Maybe it’s because this man is the piece of my soul I lost years ago.

 

My body does not know what it is doing. I realize later that I am clutching his shirt with all my strength.

 

And he, this beautiful, impossible man who is kissing me, slowly turns around and stretches himself over me. His body over mine like a blanket, covering me, engulfing me. When he lets go of my lips and looks at me, I don’t even have to strength to keep my eyes open. I feel impeccably drunk. I have never felt this drunk even with wine. His lips shining with spit. My lips tingle in oversensation. I didn't even know that I was holding in a breath, our separation reminding me to take in oxygen.

 

“So… this is what I should have felt like.” 

 

I did not intend to say that loudly but it’s not like my body is listening to me anymore.

 

“Yes. Keep thinking about her, Sir. She is the reason you are feeling this.” 

 

Stupid, stupid man. As if the happiness washing over me is because of her, not him? A woman I have no interest in whatsoever. God, he is so naive!

 

But his eyes are hesitating. Like at any moment he will stop doing what he is doing.

 

This can’t be it. God, I can’t let him go after just that. I have always been calm but a panic starts rising in my chest.

 

“Please, don't tell me that was all.”

 

“No.” 

 

He whispers in reverence. It unfurls the last spindle of willpower in my body and I finally give in.

 

“Don't stop.” 

 

I demand and drag him by his nightshirt so that I can kiss him this time. Losing myself in his warmth, the weight of his muscles and strength sheltering my body.

 

I have just kissed him and I am certain I have never been happier.

 

He knows how. He knows where. He knows everything. He is touching me for the first time and he knows where to touch me. Where to nibble at my skin so that I writhe under him. Where to lick so I shiver in anticipation. He undresses me with awe in his eyes. I have seen so many hungry eyes in this worthless lifetime; eyes greedy to touch my skin, to get a piece of the cold, untouchable body but when I look into his eyes, I never see the hunger. I see adoration. I see the warmth of affection. 

 

He runs his tongue along my jaw, with a satisfied humming noise in his throat. When he rains small bites on my chest, it's not like the bite of the small leather whip, it's pain mixed with a sensation new to me which I can identify only as pleasure. How will I ever be able to comprehend this much new knowledge?

 

A sharp suck on my nipple brings me back to the ground from my thoughts. God, he is good at what it does. He bites me tirelessly; marking me everywhere, reddening my in my skin with his teeth and lips, claiming every surface as his own. My body gives in. The pleasure running through my every nerve and I am turning into liquid. I am on the sky floating like a cloud. I am on the ocean, aimless like seafoam. I can't feel any surface except his hands, his mouth, his legs trapping me, his whole body keeping me stable, anchoring me to the ground so I don’t float away. How can I when he is here?

 

An almost skin puncturing bite and a moan escapes my throat. No, I am not in pain. Or maybe I am?

 

“Shh... Shh....” He hushes into the silent night, lavishing the mark with soothing kisses.

 

And the warmth; the low and comfortable pain-turned-pleasure pooling downwards is now apparent, as apparent as a hard erection touching my thigh.

 

What has he done?

My mind goes back to my room years ago: it’s night, I am desperately touching myself to experience pleasure as the books said. Nothing. I achieved nothing that night.

 

Men touching me while I am naked. Running their fingers against my wounded skin. Nothing. I never even had an erection.

 

But this man, this thief who came to steal my life from me is now pinning me down on my bed and touching me like no one ever has. Making me squirm under his attention and spreading my legs, pliancy overcoming my body. I am aching with passion. I want him to touch where no-one has touched before.

 

How did I even allow this to happen?

 

_ John. John. John. _

No, can’t call him by that name.

 

Is it supposed to hurt like this? It’s not pain but it’s uncomfortable.

 

He assures me. He smiles bright like a thousand suns and unravels me like a gift.

 

And God, I am mortified. Suddenly, I want to shove my face in the darkness or under the ground so he can’t see my face. 

I have an erection. I’m embarrassingly hard. Never having any intimacy in life and this sudden rush of pleasure has caused this. I feel my cheeks burning. He must have been laughing to see how inexperienced I am.

 

But he isn’t, really. It is the same tenderness in his eyes, the look I have seen numerous times; it’s the one he has when I play the violin, it’s the same one he has when I catch him looking at me secretly.

 

Is it love?

 

I don’t know. I don’t want to know.

 

“Do you want me to continue?”

 

Do I now? Does he think I want him to stop like this?

I just manage a vigorous nod.

 

And he continues his exploration. His hands spread my legs and he dives towards the middle, kissing my thighs, kissing the points I never knew I could derive pleasure from, kissing everywhere but where I want. He is cruel.

 

“Watson!” I cry out. 

 

I don’t sound as commanding I wanted to, instead I sound desperate.

 

He whispers between my legs. I cannot hear what he says. Blood rushing through my veins is making me deaf.

 

I think it is established by now. He is not that foolish that he does not understand what is happening here. The lesson he is teaching me right now has nothing to do with pleasuring a woman. 

 

But I did not imagine he would do this. I would be satisfied if he just lent me his hand but he surprises me and my breath gets caught in my throat.

 

He kisses me. There. On my cock. The exposed oversensitive head. And then he starts to lick me in short strokes. And God, I can’t breathe. It’s fire ignited in my veins, my toes are going numb, my thoughts obliterated into sensations...

My breathing is getting difficult because his tongue, that tongue which knows my body better than me, is taunting me without letting me reach the peak.

 

“Breathe William… Breathe.” He whispers encouragingly into the crease of my thigh.

 

God,  _ that _ name. I don’t want him to call me by that name, the one which everyone calls me by.

 

He must have felt sympathy because of my agonizing breaths. I don’t want to let him know how desperate I am feeling. I don’t want anyone to know. But I do want to let him know it is because of him.

 

Without saying another word he slowly takes my prick in his mouth. The loud gasp that I let out was unintentional, just like every sound he is making me conjure but I cannot complain. He can ruin me and I won’t even say another word.

 

I don’t know when I have put my fingers through his hair but I have at some point and with every movement of his mouth, I grasp his fair hair tighter. It might have hurt him. But it’s not like I can help it. The room starts to spin a little and my eyelids go heavy. His lips, his tongue doing the impossible. Taking me somewhere I have never gone. 

 

**_When the pulse begins to throb, the brain to think again_ **

**_The soul to feel the flesh and the flesh to feel the chain._ **

 

My dry throat does not give me an opportunity to warn him when the hit coiling in my stomach reaches an unknown place. I feel my bollocks tighten and as a feeble warning I try to tug at his hair. But he just tightens his grasp on my thighs more. His mouth starts working faster.

 

And I don’t remember what happens. 

 

I feel a bubble bursting inside or maybe a damn breaks. The bliss that washes over me is unknown. My limbs feel lighter and heavier. My mouth goes slack, fireworks burst inside my eyelids like the chinese recipe of gunpowder; there was flame, there was heat, there was ashes left behind.

 

I might have tuned into ash. I am not sure.

 

He kisses my face. Wipes away the tears from my cheeks. I should feel mortified but I don’t even have the enthusiasm to feel anything except eternal bliss. He gently wipes away the sweat from my forehead.

 

I languidly place my hand around his waist so that I can feel him closer. And I do feel him. Hot through the nightshirt he is still inconveniently wearing.

 

“I didn’t know.” 

 

I say slowly at last. My voice still hoarse.

He smiles at me, his eyes darker than ever. His face glowing like the sunrise on a cold winter morning.

 

“William. William.” 

 

He whispers reverently in my mouth and kisses me again. I taste my pleasure on his tongue; the bitterness of me, the sweetness of him and the name he calls me sounds wrong.

 

I want him to call me in the name I prefer.

 

“Sherlock.” I blurt out.

 

He narrows his eyes with the confusion of the whole world on his face.

 

“That’s my name. That’s what my mother called me. Everyone forgot about it. You can...” 

 

I understand belatedly that this is a useless piece of information and really unnecessary. I curse my brain that has been engulfed by the chemicals of pleasure.

 

“You want me to call you Sherlock?” He says slowly. And I gulp, biting my lips. Is silence a yes?

 

“Okay then, Sherlock.” He kisses me again. I can feel his lips smiling against mine.

 

“Now you.” 

 

I wrap my legs around his waist and claim his mouth and before he can say anything, I have turned us. Now, he is flat on his back on the bed, trapped between my legs. The nightshirt still unnecessarily on him.

 

“No. You don’t have...” 

 

He attempts to sit up cautiously, dismissing my advance.

I am not as weak as I look and he gets a taste of that when my hand on his chest makes him lay back to his previous position.

 

“I certainly don’t have to.” 

 

It’s a nuisance, talking when being ecstatic in pleasure, when there is still chemicals running through your veins making you weak and your fingers unstable.

 

“Get rid of that. It has no right to be here.”

 

I  tug at his nightshirt. He laughs and removes it.

 

God. 

 

His prick is a thing of beauty and my immediate instinct is to kiss the shiny head that has emerged from under the skin. I feel him shudder under me. I want to pleasure him the same way he did to me but my inexperience might not be helpful in that case. But he is already so hard. I think I can manage to do it with my fingers. For this time.

 

This time?

Is there a later time, Sherlock?

No, not now. Not now.

 

I bring my attention back to the man lying in front of me with red, spit swollen lips. God, what is this man made of? The earth itself? Or molten iron? I hungrily drink him in with my eyes. The sinew curves of his chest, the taut muscles on his arm, the little scar on his belly, the stab wound on his shoulder. 

 

The wound. I can feel it now but I see uneasiness on his body as I slowly extend my hand to touch it. So I don’t. Instead, I lean and give a kiss to his stomach, then the pectorals where the hard nubs are inviting me. 

I see him take a gulp. So I kiss his throat, the little hollow, following a path towards his ears. He lets out a gasp when my thigh brushes against his throbbing erection.

 

“How am I doing?” I breathe sensually in his ear.

 

“Good. You are...” 

 

He can’t form a sentence. I don’t want to torture him anymore.

 

So I kiss the corner of his mouth and wrap my hand around his prick.

His eyes close and he breathes hard into my mouth, ragged breaths seeking oxygen. 

 

His leaking cock makes it easier to stroke with my fingers. I have played music all my life with these hands. I have spent half of my life reading about how to give people pleasure. I can play a man if I want. And certainly the man I want to play with.

His brain is now fiddled with the ecstasy. I can ask him now. I don’t care if he will be able to garner the truth. But I can.

 

“Do you like me, Watson?”

 

He nods his head with his mouth open. No, that won’t do. I need him to say it. 

 

“Say yes or no for me.”

 

“Yes, yes, yes, God!”

 

He almost cries, leaking copiously in my hand. Clutching me tighter and holding me closer to his body.

 

“Will you ever betray me?” 

 

I don’t know why I am asking a question even I can’t answer.

 

“No. I won’t.” He pants. 

 

His forehead is sweaty, yet he is looking more beautiful than ever.

I close my eyes for a moment, making myself believe the lie. Even if just for the night. 

 

“Good.”

 

I open my eyes and without thinking further, kiss him hard on his mouth while stroking him until he lets out a cry and spills in my hand. A warm, thick pulse covering my fingers.

 

“God. God… oh God. William.”

 

“Sherlock.” 

 

I nuzzle in his chest as correction, breathing the earthy scent of him mixed with sweat and our release. The room smells like sweat, bitterness and bliss.

 

“Yes… Sherlock.” He answers, holding my neck and burying his face in my hair. 

 

His chest moves with his breathing. I can hear his organs under his skin. Blood rushing, heart pumping, lungs hollowing. It feels like home. This cold mansion, full of wealth, constantly full of people never felt like home. But this low class Londoner who has spent his life stealing from people and who came here being oblivious of the conspiracy around him, feels like home. Who cares about consequences? Who cares about freedom if he is here?

 

The neverending moment ends eventually. I let him lay myself down on the bed. I look at his face shamelessly while he wipes my fingers with his discarded nightshirt with a hint of a smile on his face. 

 

Then he blows out the lamp and drags me to his chest again. I bury myself in that warmth. Wrapping my legs around him. Engulfing him. Breathing in him. My whole body aches from the attention he gave me earlier. And aching has never felt better.

 

I want to say something to him before I fall asleep. To let him know that it was the best night of my existence. But I cannot. It is too blissful. Too calm. Forming coherent words are like trying to win a battle against a storm. He must know. I know he knows. I know he has seen that all over my face. On each and every droplet of my sweat, in every note of my moans. He knows that he did all of that.

 

Sleep has never been more peaceful. 

 

When I wake up in the morning, no one is in my bed. And I think for a moment that last night might have been a dream of my troubled mind but then my eyes fall upon my bedside. 

 

A neat pile of my clothes is waiting beside my bed. With a single rose on top of it. 

 

I pick up and smell the rose. Water droplets cascade down my finger and it feels like rebirth.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I am terrible at writing smut. So forgive any kind of mistakes. Also can you believe only 4 chapters left? God how is she gonna resolve everything? :p  
> Thank you as always. Lots of love. Lemme know how you liked/hated it ;)


	13. You, it’s you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ******Trigger warning for suicide attempt. Just the attempt.*******

I try to ignore the inquisitive glances Irene throws at me during our routine walk but I honestly doubt that she is trying to be subtle. As soon as I realize that there is a considerable distance between ourselves and John walking at a slow pace behind us, I mutter under my breath.

 

“I don't know what your mission is but you are not really being subtle, Miss Adler.”

 

She laughs like she was expecting my words.

 

“Well, it’s hard to look away from you when you are smiling by yourself and glowing like the sun itself.” She gives my hand a squeeze.

 

“What is funny, William? Care to share? Happy about leaving this hellhole of a place so soon?”  

 

Her fond grey eyes are assuring. Should I tell her? That what she assumed was right? That someone does love me and I am happy to admit that I love them in return? 

 

I never knew I could love and here I am still feeling drunk off his taste in my mouth, his touches still imprinted on my skin. I examined myself in the morning when I woke up, hoping to convince myself that it was real and not just a fantasy I had dreamt up. My deathly pale skin is decorated with faint purple and red patches, fingertip shaped bruises and an impressive set of teeth marks sitting just under my collarbone. I put pressure on it, making it hurt, forcing my mind to remember last night. Although it is not like I am ever going to forget it. I can still feel his breath over my skin, the gasps that filled the night still ringing in my ears. He is not very far. I can just turn around and will see his blue eyes following me. I am sure he currently has his eyes on me.

 

At first, I didn’t hear the argument because of the thoughts crowding my brain and I had not realized that Moriarty had joined our walk. I turn around to see him putting a coin in John’s hand and telling him something in a very hushed tone.

 

It does not take much wit to understand that he is bribing John to give us privacy, to make the illusion of the romance clear.

But John, the ever impossible, ever unpredictable John throws away the coin and ignores the glare Moriarty throws in his direction when he turns his back on him and starts following me again.

 

Irene looks at my face. Brows furrowed in confusion.

 

“What’s gotten into your plaything?” She whispers.

 

I reply, not meeting her eyes but concentrating on the narrow path of the garden in front of me, coming to a decision at last. I hide a smile. Feeling satisfied. Content.

 

“I wonder the same.”

 

**

 

It was expected that Jim would call John to his room right after we come back. The drama earlier was quite an indication of his intention. I am curious as to what he will say to Moriarty, to defend the explanation of what he did earlier.

 

As he goes out of my room, I follow. I know how to reach the guest wing faster than him. 

Moriarty stands in middle of the room with an enraged face. 

 

“Get inside that closet!”

 

I hide in it and as soon as the door of the closet is closed, John and Stamford walk in.

The small fight that happened after that is not entirely pleasing. I like the part where John showed an act of defiance.**

 

And surprisingly or not so surprisingly, he wants out of the plan, doesn’t want to hurt me.

 

“He is sensitive and has got no-one on this earth.” 

 

I stand in the darkness of the closet, chewing on my bottom lip. His voice is so soothing. Did I notice that before?

 

“Tell that witch to be gentle or he will close up as hard as a clam and there will be no plan to fulfill anymore.” 

 

I suppress a chuckle. Oh John. Silly John. Oblivious man. I am far away from closing up.

 

I cringe when I hear John gasping after being forcibly held down by Moriarity. I clench my hands tightly to stop myself from revealing where I am and ensuring that he is okay.  

 

After a few tense seconds, Moriarty shuts him up as expected and sends him on his way with a warning. As soon as he runs out of the room, stomping his feet, I emerge from the shadows. 

 

“You see? You have to be more convincing, William. Show some enthusiasm about this marriage. If you don’t give the impression that you want this marriage, he might throw another fit and refuse to go forward.”

 

He turns towards me, his face still red from the argument. What did he say? That this is his ticket out of this life. Like I give a shite about what Moriarty’s life means.

 

“Be more convincing when you pretend to love Irene in front of him. This is our only chance. Remember that.”

 

He walks toward his bed and starts to get rid of his coat.

 

It’s time to tell him.

 

“I can’t do it.” I say.

 

“What did you say?” Jim turns with wide eyes and a bewildered expression on his face.

 

“I want to quit.” I clarify. “I will pay you your expenses for all your trouble and that will be the end of it and there shall be no conspiracy. Also I can steal some of Uncle’s books for you, they can be sold at high price.” I complete in a breath.

 

“What has gotten into you lot today?” Moriarty looks like he has tasted something extremely upsetting; his mouth shaped in a grimace, eyes sharp and analyzing. 

 

“Nothing at all.”

 

“Do you feel sorry for him, William?”

 

No I don’t. I really don’t. I feel something far away from being sorry. I want to be lost in him. I want to feel him inside out. I feel love. How would you know?

 

I say nothing and look at the other way. Silence is agreement apparently and Jim will get the message eventually.

 

“What is with you young people? Always so uncertain about everything.” Jim sits on the bed and lets out a sigh then looks at me with tired eyes.

 

“Do you know what your poor John said about his Lordship?”

 

I raise my eyebrow waiting for the answer to his own question.

 

“That you are naive. He was being nice out of pity. Are you forgetting this is just an act? He has been promised to be awarded a decent sum of money to pull off this con. Don’t take his sentiments or any act of affection as... you know,  _ personal. _ ”

 

He shakes his head in mock sadness. 

 

“I knew for a fact that you were quite deprived of human attachments and that was the first thing I considered to infiltrate your mind while I prepared the scheme to begin with. Don’t forget that.”

 

“Keep your words to yourself.” I snap at him. 

 

But there is this little voice inside me, awakened by the devil's’ presence. What if that was it, that he was being nice out of pity for me? What if he just took advantage of the situation and I just led him on? What if last night was him just being sympathetic?

 

“You can think whatever you want but really you are simply feeling sympathy for a thief who volunteered to destroy your life. I did not take you as stupid. Think it through.”

 

“See you later.” I storm out of the room.  

 

“You know, you might consider asking your poor John or should I say Hamish?” Moriarty's voice comes floating down the corridor as I walk off. He thinks he is good at joking. His laughter fades away.

 

But maybe yes, maybe I will take that exact advice and ask him. 

 

**

 

How many times have I told him that I don’t want him to touch my feet. I don’t actually need his services in any way but when he holds my feet and sits under me, it makes him look more like a servant. I don’t want it. He is not that. But after last night, I don’t protest. I can’t protest to his touch, I am not ashamed to admit I enjoy it. Not the act itself but his specific handling and how he looks while doing it.

 

I look at his pretty face, eyes narrowed in concentration and strong, callused fingers massaging my feet intently, like it is the most important job in the world. I wish he could read my thoughts through physical contact and I could read his. 

 

Why don’t I keep you, John? Forever?

 

I don’t want the freedom anymore. I don’t want the wealth. I will go on like this for the rest of my life. I will keep John with me and it will be perfect. Almost perfect. I don’t care about my uncle, or the books, the whips or the eyes lusting for me. He will be with me and I will have a purpose in my life.

 

He is babbling about how I have not witnessed the many wonders of the world, how I am missing everything by living inside this mansion. Why is he telling me this? Doesn't he want me to spend the rest of my life in a madhouse? Or does he really want to show me the world outside? I can spend the rest of my life happily looking at that face beaming at me. I can spend the rest of my living days trying to determine the exact shade of his hair or the depth of his eyes. With him wrapped around me, beside me, inside me. He knows right? He has to know. Everything means nothing. Only he does.

 

Opening a heart is painful enough already, more painful when you believed that it didn't exist in the first place. Just like not using a machine makes it rusty; the heart is one, nothing but a machine causing all the trouble, making me fall in love in the most unsuitable circumstances.

 

“Who cares about other people?” I whisper. 

 

Looking at the thief, who instead of all the things he should have stolen, could have stolen; decided to steal my heart. A true thief indeed.

 

He looks up at me with a bewildered expression. He is not stupid. He knows what I am saying. Our eyes lock onto each other, unblinking. I can hear nothing but the soft whisper of the falling snow outside and the erratic thumping of my heart.

 

I don’t care about the situation. He has to know. So with a frantically beating heart, goosebumps over my whole body, sweating inside my nightshirt, heated cheeks and my heart on my sleeves, I say what I never thought I would say to anyone.

 

“I will be content here. 

If you are with me.”

 

He continues looking at me. I wait for an eternity to hear back the words. He will tell me now. I know. He will tell me it is the same for him. It has to be. I cannot be wrong.  

 

But what is he doing? Why is he avoiding the notion I am trying to give? No, I don’t love anyone else. I don’t love Irene. I don’t want to go to London. Did I not have sex with this man last night? Did I not make it clear enough that I am not trying to learn anything about pleasing a woman? 

 

Then, why is he doing what is he doing? Why is he still talking about this marriage?

I told Jim that he is a liar but what if John is still lying? Just as he said.

 

“You do love her.”

 

I snatch my feet from his grasp. Suddenly his touch is burning my skin and not in a pleasing way like last night.

 

“How can you be sure, Watson?” My throat is suddenly made of sand. Each word is a struggle.

 

“You stare out of the window all day, Sir. You are always so deep in thought… you turn in your sleep and sigh. You… you seem besotted.”

 

Yes, besotted. With you, you bastard. In you. You are like a corrosive presence in my life, eating me alive and I welcomed that. That was what I always wanted but is that not what you intended?

 

I am feeling empty inside. I try for the last time with calculated words. He will not miss it.

“If I, who has no-one on this earth, say that I love someone else, will you still tell me to marry her and go to London, somewhere I have never been before?”

 

He closes his eyes. There, I bared my heart up to the last of it. He does love me. I cannot be  wrong. I have given him courage now. Now, he will certainly say back those words I want to hear.

 

“Yes. You will love her eventually, Sir. You will love her and cherish…”

 

I cannot believe my own ears. After all that has happened and what we’ve been through, this is what I get? So last night was nothing? These days were nothing? All of the touches, shared glances. He was just playing the game?

 

I slap him without knowing. Like a reflex. I did not have control of it at first but now he is looking up at me with a reddened cheek and the urge to slap him again is not just a reflex anymore. It is a need.

 

I slap him again. And again. My hands sting. That was hard. But not as hard as I wanted. I despise him right now. I hate him more than anything else in the world. I hate that he touched me. Tricked me. 

 

He tries to struggle when I shove him outside my room and lock the door. I am crying. I don't know when I started crying. 

 

"William!"

 

He bangs on the door. 

 

"Sherlock! Open the door."

 

I loathe the sound of my name in his voice. All of these years, distancing myself from the perverts, the people who lust over me, the people who hate me, the people who deride my existence. Did I never learn anything? How could I be this foolish? How could I let a man use my body, get close to me while he cannot even say how he feels about me after I gave him numerous chances?

 

I fell in love with a coward. I gave my heart when I shouldn't have and now I have no purpose. Why should I be alive? The prospect of a new life seemed alluring once but that seems like a lifetime ago. I wanted a life with this man. Now it seems more than likely that will never happen.

 

Better that Uncle gets his fortune. Better that that pervert does whatever he wants. I don't want a life without John and it seems like he is perfectly capable of having a life without me.

 

I’m in my night clothes but I quickly grab my coat and wrap my scarf tightly around my neck. This scarf was a gift from my aunt on my birthday. It is one of my most cherished treasures, one of the only belongings I have left of her.  Why did she make it so sturdy? Did she know that one day I would need it?

 

The back door opens to the garden and my footsteps are silent enough. Years of tiptoeing around the house, I learnt to be as graceful and agile as a cat and the snowfall is helping; covering the sound of my feet as I trudge lightly through the powdered ice to my destination. 

 

My hands don't falter or shake when I tie the scarf around my neck. And I do not hesitate for a moment when I carefully tie the other end around the same branch my aunt was hanging from ten years ago. It snowed that day and I must have slept peacefully when Uncle killed her and hanged her lifeless body here.

 

I feel so alone. I have never felt this alone and isolated in months. John never let me. He knows I love him and standing at the door of my death, I am feeling extremely calm right now. I finally understand him. 

 

At least he will not die alone in a madhouse if I do now. It is the least I can do for the man who gave me reason to live, even if for a short time. I have never felt alive before him. My only regret is that I did not get to hear from his mouth that he loves me back. I know he does. 

 

I don't want to cry but I do. I feel sorry for myself. I am sorry for being a fool. I am sorry for letting someone in. I am sorry that I could not protest to years and years of abuse. And I am sorry that I could not live a better life.

 

My lifeless body will look ugly. My face will twist, my tongue will stick out. I will struggle for air. My throat will swell from the lack of oxygen and blood flow and I will regret my decision just before I die. John will see that face. Maybe he will mourn. Half of that mourning will be for me. The other half of that will be for the wasted opportunity. I should have given him something before I took this ultimate decision in a state of an extreme outrage.

 

I am no longer angry. I am scared.  

I hope mother is watching. And aunt Eliza. I don't believe in heaven but suddenly I want to. Maybe there is a better place beyond the realms of mortal men? Maybe at last I will be free.

 

I close my eyes, take one last deep breath in and allow my hands to let go of the branch. This is how I go.

  
  
  
  


But why isn't the pressure around my throat tightening? Why am I still breathing?

 

And why is there two arms wrapped around my legs, stopping me from the fall? I haven't opened my eyes yet but I know those hands. I have memorized their touch carefully and lovingly. 

 

I didn't hear him approaching me. The same advantage of the snow I took, he used as well. I must have been too lost in my thoughts that I did not even hear him calling my name.

 

When I open my eyes, I see two hands wrapped around my lower limbs like iron grips, not letting me free, delaying my fall and the owner of two eyes are crying. I have never seen him crying. It hurts to watch.

 

"Let go of me, John." I attempt to free my legs in a feeble last attempt. 

 

"I am sorry. I am sorry, Sherlock. Please don't die. Please don't get married! I am sorry!" He whimpers. Breathing with difficulty.

 

“What are you sorry about?”

 

His whimpering increases but he manages to confess at last.

Tears streaming down his face, I feel so sorry for him suddenly.

 

“I tried to trick you into marrying that witch because Moriarty planned it. Then I would help him by putting you in a mad house and we would run off with your money.” He is almost bruising me with his grip. His head touches my knee and I feel the warm tears soak through my pants.

 

“Don’t die, Sherlock. Please don’t do this to me.”

 

There is snowflakes on his head; glistening in the moonlight, golden and white, the sun and the moon.

 

“Are you worried about me, John?”

 

He looks up at me and nods his head vigorously. Still crying.

 

“I am worried about you.”

 

He didn’t realize it first but eventually he does. Slowly, after a few moments his eyes go wide. His whimpering subsidies in a low sound in his throat.

 

“You… You called me John. How do you know my name?”

 

I smile at his face. Not mocking. Cannot mock him. I find it amusing. This whole matter of obliviousness, making me forget everything that has transpired in the last few minutes.

 

“You think you are tricking me, John? You were the one being tricked here. You were bound for the madhouse. Not me.”

 

He gasps and his mouth falls open but his grip doesn’t falter.

 

“I was going to lock you under my name in the madhouse and then give them half of my money and run away somewhere else with the half I have.”

 

He continues looking at me with disbelieving eyes. His crying has stopped. 

 

“Then why didn’t you? What stopped you?” He asks slowly, softly. 

 

I chuckle, breaking the silence of the night. No-one except him can hear me. I look at the red rimmed eyes and tell him the truth.

 

“You.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oopsie..What is going on? :p  
> Will wait for your comments.


	14. The thief, the savior

The lamp and its luminous presence is unable to chase away the suspended darkness of the room or the tension.

 

John has been sitting stoically like that on the carpet since we have come back from the garden after my failed attempt of taking my life. He just followed me silently as we sneaked our way back into the house and then collapsed in the middle of my room. Has it been ten minutes? Or an eternity?

 

The clock suggests it’s the former.

  


I am sitting on the same carpet but not really close to him. I am not sure if offering him comfort would be a good idea right now or if it will be welcome at all. I am not quite sure who between us needs comfort at the moment. Perhaps we both do? I don’t know really.

 

He murmurs something.

 

“John.” I whisper in inquiry.

 

He looks at me through bloodshot eyes and he repeats clearly with gritted teeth and a fire raging within that red rimmed, tear stained gaze.

 

“That fucking bastard. I will kill him.”

 

“Um… well...”

 

He raises his hand and shuts me up mid sentence.

 

“And you! You bastard.”

 

“Me?”

 

“Yes, you!”

 

“You are not expecting me to apologize, are you? You tricked me as well.”

 

He continues looking at me with an expression which can only be translated as increasing fury.

 

“Don’t give me that look. I was going to die for you!” I say between clenched teeth.

 

“Yes. That is where my problem lies.”

 

What? What is he talking about? Me dying for him was not enough?

 

“My god, John!”

 

I stand up, throwing my hands in the air as I become exceedingly infuriated with the situation.

 

“What more do you want? I was sacrificing my whole life right there so that you don’t end up in a madhouse! So that you are alive! I did not care for myself and you are angry with me?”

 

He goes silent for a while, looking at me with disbelieving eyes or what is that expression? I don’t know. My mind is jumbled and I don’t know what is what anymore. I was not prepared to have this conversation before I decided to take my life. I was not prepared then. I am not prepared now.

 

He lets out a sigh and stands up. Then walks over to me with a slow pace and only stops when he is well inside my personal space. So close that I can smell him. I can see the little freckles on his nose. Almost invisible. And the indescribable part of his irises. Is it brown? Is it blue? Is it my salvation?

 

He places his hands over my cheeks, cupping my face with the softest touch a human being can perceive then looks at me directly in the eye.

 

And I, who was attempting to end my life less than an hour ago, is wanting to die again.  In a completely different way.

 

“You are an idiot. Do you know that?” He says quietly. His eyes roam over my face. Reading my every muscle.

 

“I am not an idiot.”

 

I want to melt into his touch. I want to melt like ice in the presence of sunshine. There is a fulfilment in that liquefying, despite its destruction.

 

“Yes, you are.”

 

One of his hands travel from my cheek to my neck, pressing softly so that my head bends down closer to him. He lets out a small sigh.

 

“You don’t get it do you? Why I am upset at you? It’s not because of the trick you pulled. You are right. You don’t need to apologize. We are both guilty all the same.”

 

“Then why are you upset?” I wrap my hands around his waist and count his breath, marvelling at our closeness and my ability to revel in the intimacy that we are sharing.

 

After five deep and slow breaths, he talks again.

 

“I am upset because you went to kill yourself.”

 

He is confusing me again.

 

“But that was for you, John. That was to save you.”

 

“You utter, utter idiot. There lies the problem.”  He touches his forehead with mine.

 

“No one is worthy of your life. Your life belongs to no one. Only you. I am not worthy of it. No one is worthy of it. You understand?” He raises his eyebrow.

 

I nod in agreement. I will tell him. I will tell him the truth later; that my life has not been mine for a long time. My life belongs to him. But for now, I will just nod in compliance because that is what he wants to hear.

 

I stopped counting his breath when the sensation of his hand slowly rubbing my neck began. I won’t mind if this goes on for eternity, just him touching me gently, being closer than ever.

 

“Can I… Can I kiss you Sherlock?” He asks tenderly.

 

“You have before. And it was me who asked you to do it first. Why are you asking?”

 

“Because it is different now. Don’t you feel it? It’s different - us.” He chuckles softly.

 

“Please say yes, Sherlock.” I can see him licking his lips, his pink tongue making its surface shine. I mirror him before I even know it.

 

“Yes.”

 

I have kissed him before. Just a day ago. I have kissed him a hundred ways, in a hundred places.

 

But this...

 

Breathing is not even a necessity when he is kissing me like a starved man. I love you, John. I love you. I never understood the kind of love people talked about in the novels I read. How can someone be the reason for living? How can someone be the only thing on anyone’s mind? How can a human have the power to burn someone from the inside out while soothing them all the while? How can someone dedicate their whole life for someone, make the meaning of life into a person?

 

I get it. I understand it now, how this man can be the reason of my existence. How he can make me forget everything happening around me right now. How he can make me a better man. How  he makes me feel powerful yet feel remarkably fragile all the same time.

 

He backs me up against the wall and I slide down a little to make it easier for him. Make myself more within his reach when he kisses and kisses me. My lips sting. My heart beats like it will come out of my chest. His hold on my face is still feather light but my grip on him is tight. I am craving skin. I want to touch. I want to be touched.

 

“I love you. I love you. God, I love you.” He whispers between kisses.

 

When he lets me go, I suddenly feel empty.

 

“God, what am I doing? We need to plan something. We need to talk and I am… No… Not now.” His face is so expressive I can see him fighting against himself internally.

 

“No. Now.” I close the distance between us by dragging his forearm towards me.

 

“It can wait. Everything can wait. I can’t.” I say between breaths.

 

“No, Sherlock. I am taking advantage of you. For God’s sake, you were going to kill yourself just an hour ago. You are not in any right mind.”

 

I want to laugh because little does he know how nothing affects me anymore.

 

“John. I am always in my right mind. Trust me.” I let go off his forearm and run my hand down his clothed torso, his abdomen, against taut muscles and stop when I reach his groin. I lean and whisper in his ear, rubbing over his clothes slowly.

 

“So when I say I want you right now at this moment. I want you more than I have ever wanted anything. That I cannot even think of anything else unless you fuck me in my bed until there are stars under my eyelids. I am telling the truth and I am in my right mind, don't try to tell me otherwise.”

 

“God, Sherlock.” His voice trembles. “You can talk.” He laughs shakily, attempting to right himself as I invade his space.

 

“Mmmm, yes.” I say, nibbling his earlobe. “I can do many things. You don’t even know me as a whole yet. You will eventually find out but right now you need to know one thing...”

 

“Uhhnf… What… Would that be?” He bucks his hips unintentionally as he slowly relinquishes control. He is beautiful when he loses the ability to talk due to pleasure. Makes me feel proud I am the one man doing that. How many lovers did you have, John? Did they love you as much as I do?

 

“Right now you need to know that...” I take his hand which was lazily waiting on my shoulder while he enjoyed my attention to his ears with closed eyes and place it over my obvious erection. “You are the one responsible for that.” I touch his neck with my lips, caressing the skin before biting down, marking him.

 

“God almighty. You will be the death of me.” He lets out a moan. I can feel the vibrations in his throat.

 

He fumbles between us to grip both of us together. His cold hands on my warmth making me shiver. His soft groans and puffs of breath spurring me on, sending me towards oblivion as my body takes over.

  


“You are...” He shakes his head with a smile hanging on his angry red lips, the ones I had bitten.

 

“What? A madman?”

 

“No.”

 

He places a wet kiss on my mouth.

 

“You are mine.”

 

I never thought being someones’ possession would make me excited. Would make my blood cascade like on fire. Would make my nerves jitter. I have been in the possession of a dirty, old man most of my life but when this man is claiming myself as his own, I have never wanted anything else so badly.

  


When he whispers soft nothings in my ear and strokes both of our erections together, I feel tears streaming down the corner of my eyes. It’s because I feel so in love, so content. For the first time in my life. The only sound in the room is the soft slap of skin on skin and my sniffling.

 

“I love you.” I manage between tears. “I love you, John.”

 

I know he can feel my tears. Somehow he understands. Maybe finally he can read my mind by touching me. He buries his head in my clavicle and holds me to the wall. Firmly.

 

I won’t be able to last for much longer. This is still all new to me. And it’s him. That’s why it is too much all at once.

 

The combination of sensations and fluctuating emotions fuel my passion. Suddenly, there is too much going on in my head because I finally know exactly what to do. Just as I once made a plan to exchange someone’s life with me, I know how we all can escape the grasp of the devil.

 

I sob when I spill between us.

 

My body shakes with the orgasm and there are galaxies behind my eyelids. Stars and planets and the night sky. I almost want to learn about the solar system again; now I know the sun, I can be the earth.

 

“Sherlock… Sherlock...” I feel soft pats on my cheek, moist lips caressing my face, trying to get my attention.

 

“Yes?” My throat is dry yet I have never felt better.

 

“I thought I lost you there...” He smiles tenderly at me when I lock eyes with him.

 

We have slid down the wall somewhere in the past minute, unknowingly to me. Now he is looking at me with questioning blue eyes and expectation.

 

“I know you have come to some conclusion. Haven’t you?” He runs his fingers through my hair, calming me, making me lean into the touch.

 

It’s astonishing how he knows me better than I know myself sometimes.

 

“Yes. I have.” I entwine his fingers with mine and bring his hand to my lips. I kiss his knuckles one by one while he patiently waits for my words. I lead him to lay on the bed with me as we have done many of times.

 

“Do you trust your family back in London?”

 

“Yes. More than anything. I can’t even imagine if I never went back home. If there was never any news from me.” He smiles a painful smile and I kiss his hand to gently divert his attention back to the present.

 

“You are going to write them a letter telling them about Moriarty’s original plan. Telling them about me. How we are teaming up to end everything once and for all. I will enclose some expenses with the letter.”

 

“And how exactly are we going to do that?” He sits up straight on the bed, his back against the headboard - he looks like he belongs there.

 

“I will take care of the part where Uncle will not be able to touch one single strand of our hair but you know Moriarty better than me. Any idea on how to make him disappear?”

 

“I think someone else knows Moriarty better than me.” His eyes glint in the light of the oil lamp and he smiles at me which fills me with an unexplainable warmth.

 

“I demanded someone a bit dimwitted you know.” I grab him closer and almost crawl in his lap.

 

“And instead I got this lovely and bright and gorgeous and beautiful man. I hated you a little when I saw you first.” I say, kissing his lips.

 

“I am extremely flattered… And scared.” He holds my hands with his own. “Will we get out of this? I want to say I am hopeful but knowing that man out there… I am scared Sherlock. If he gets a single whiff of any of this...”

 

“I am scared too but have a little faith in me. I tricked you into believing that I am a naive, young thing, didn’t I?” I nibble at his lips. It’s like I am addicted to him. I can’t keep my hands off him.  Now that he knows everything. Not everything yet. I will tell him the rest later.

 

He says nothing. Just hums in agreement.

 

“Call me that name again.” I whisper in his mouth, clutching him close.

 

“What name?” His hands makes soothing circles on my back, making me calm, keeping me grounded, making everything crystal clear in my cluttered mind. I don’t know the future but I am so happy in this moment. So extremely fulfilled.

 

“You know I heard you last night, right?” I say rubbing his nose with mine.

 

He hesitates for a moment then bites his lips. His cheeks start to display that lovely shade of scarlet again.

 

“My rose.” He says, kissing my cheek.

 

I am certain my blush is a perfect match with his.

  


**

 

“You know there are only two possible leverages when it comes to blackmailing you.”

 

Irene looks up at me from her book. A surprised smile on her lips.

 

“Why? Are you planning to blackmail me?”

 

“Of course not. I am just trying to determine what kind of document Moriarty has on you, so he can keep you on a leash. Incriminating letters seems most likely. Maybe with very _luscious_ details, the kind of things people only send to lovers. Something which might harm your reputation back in London. Harm it gravely.” I narrow my eyes, observing her reaction intently while schooling my face.

 

And it is telling. It is so very telling. It is as clear as daylight  how right I am. She tries to laugh it away but fails. Her laugh sounding like a weak attempt.

 

“I am not foolish enough to send incriminating letters to men, Mr. Scott. I know better than that.”

 

“Yes, you do know better than that now. But it has not always been like that. You were young and foolish once and you clearly know I am not talking about any man.”

 

She looks at me for a moment and then a warm smile spreads on her lips.

 

“I should have seen this coming.”

 

“So? I am right?”

 

She stays silent, measuring the situation. I can almost see the calculations going on inside her brain.

 

“Am I more dangerous than him? That you can’t even tell me what he knows?”

 

Irene sighs in defeat and sits up, carefully scanning our surroundings before leaning towards me.

 

“Yes. Yes. I was young. I was stupid. I used to send carefully concealed letters to her. I never thought anyone would be interested to know what is inside the letters a girl sends to another. But somehow that man got his hands on it. Most of it.” Her voice falters but she takes a deep breath to steady herself and continues.

 

“Kate blames herself, I tell her not to but it won’t let us rest in peace. And he takes the opportunity to force me to do things again and again which I don’t want to do. Money is not a problem but most of his demands are not about money. Risky business.” Her eyes glisten in the sunlight as she stares into the distance.

 

“What is different this time?”

 

“This time he promised me that he will leave us alone. He is going to flee the country and start another life somewhere far from here. And this is the last thing I ever have to do for him.”

 

“Do you believe him? Do you really believe that he is not going to expose you before he vanishes?”

 

She looks at me intently for a moment and then purses her lips.

 

“Not really.” She says at last.

 

Now, Sherlock.

 

“What if we get rid of him once and for all?”

 

“How? And who is we?” She furrows her brows in confusion.

 

I smile at her.

 

“You were right, Miss Adler. Love is a dangerous disadvantage. So dangerous that it has made me think about a plan to defeat all the devils in our lives.”

 

“Are you saying what I am thinking you are saying?” She squints her eyes, expressing her incredulity.

 

“Yes. Some things have happened in the past few days that have made me reconsider everything... In short. I am in love with the man I was planning to send to a madhouse. And it goes without saying that I don’t want him to die.”

 

“He knows?” Her eyes go wide in disbelief. I see her stealing a glance at John who is biting his nails with great concentration. Not paying attention to his surroundings.

 

“Of course, he knows everything. But Moriarty can never know that. Now I just need your help.” I shrug, trying for indifference.

 

“You understand, right? The man we are going against is none other than Jim Moriarty.” She squeezes my hand, I can feel her slightly trembling.

 

“Yes, I know. Also I know for a fact that you are going to fully participate.”

 

She laughs then slaps me lightly on my hand.

 

“You bastard. You know everything don’t you? Now tell me. What do I have to do?”

 

**

 

The whole household has gathered outside to see away Uncle and the Brookes. As I go to bid uncle my farewell, he fixes me with a glare and leaves me with parting words that ring in my ears.

 

“Always remember what happens if you try to run away.”

 

“Yes, Uncle.”  

 

I step back and the horse carriages set off, taking a turn down the lane and vanishing from my eyesight. Along with two more. Irene looks at me with concerned eyes before her carriage fades away. She has things to do. So do we. Moriarty winks at me before getting into his carriage.

 

I turn around and see a pair of blue eyes and worried face looking at me.

 

“Come on. Let us go somewhere.” I smile at him.

 

There are only two sets of keys for the library. One is in Uncle’s custody, one is in mine. Ms. Turner is not even here now, she returned to her village. She is the only person sneaky enough to follow me around, the rest of the servants don’t even dare.

 

“I… I have never crossed this.” He says standing in front of the engraved wooden sword.

 

“You are crossing it now.”  

 

“What are we doing here? Are you going to take some books with you?” He walks around on the wooden floor, creating loud, hollow sounds with his boot heels.

 

“It looks beautiful. So many books. Not that I can read very well but this is magnificent.” His voice comes floating from a few rows behind me.

 

I am standing in a familiar row of the manuscripts. Some new books Uncle is going to start publishing very soon... The sexual journey of a young man.

 

“Come here, John.” I call him and take down a manuscript from the shelf.

 

“These things cost a lot, right? We can steal some and sell them in the black market. I know some people who...”

 

“John.” I cut him off in the middle of his sentence. Almost feeling bad for doing so but he has to know. Before we go, he has to know about the darkness.

 

“I should stop talking… Yes?” He asks calmly. With the ever bright smile on his face.

 

“Remember how I read books for gentlemen in this library?” I hand him the manuscript. He nods silently and takes it from my hand. Turning the pages. He stops when a illustration comes into his sight.

 

A young man laying on the ground, bound in ropes; his hands and his legs in an uncomfortable position. His flaccid cock is clearly visible in the indian ink illustration. I would congratulate Moriarty for his artistic skills if the situation was different. It does not take a lot of effort to deduce who the man in the illustration is. My pale eyes and distinctive curls are a dead giveaway.

 

The page on the right has some lines written on it. I wrote those myself. I remember what it said.

 

**_“The magnificent pale body, covered in sweat, glistened in the soft light of the candle. The young man was asking for mercy. But the older man was not going to listen to any of it. He thrust inside him while the young man screamed in agony.”_ **

 

John has been frozen in the same position for several minutes now. His eyes are blinking at long intervals. I can see him gripping the manuscript with such intensity that his knuckles are going white.

 

“John?” I ask him in a low voice.

 

He looks up at me with the most frantic and bewildered although calm expression I have ever seen on anyone. His eyes are pink.

 

“Answer me every question I ask you right now, Sherlock. And always answer the truth.”

 

“I will.” I know what he is going to ask.

 

“Did that bastard Moriarty draw all this?” He says. Pausing at every word.

 

I nod. I don’t have the ability to talk.

 

“Is this what you have been reading to that dirty old man and those gentlemen?”

 

My eyes are prickling. They are going to betray me at any moment. What if he is disgusted? Will he be able to look at me the same way? I wouldn’t be able to.

 

I nod again. A tear drop falls down my cheek.

 

“Did he…?” He takes a hard gulp. “Did he rape you, Sherlock?”

 

“No.” I close my eyes and tears start falling, I can’t control them, my body is not listening to me anymore.

 

“Then what else did he do?”

 

My lungs are struggling for air but I have to tell him. Just as the parts of my soul he knows about, he has to know about the parts that are black as tar.

 

“He… used to display me. Try methods… on me… Whips… Let those men touch me..” I can’t. I can’t anymore. I start sobbing loudly in the middle of the quiet library.

 

“Oh, darling.” I hear the sounds of the manuscript falling on the floor and then two hands are wrapping me in a warm cocoon. Like always. Like the first night he walked into my life.

 

“God. Sherlock. I feel so guilty. I took advantage of you.” His voice is hushed but clear.

 

“No, no. You have to understand.” I don’t know when both of us moved to sitting on the ground.

 

“Whatever happened between us, I gave my consent, I wanted each of those things. There is a difference.” Words have always been a difficulty for me, but I have to tell him.

 

“But...”

 

“No, you see John. I have been reading those books from when I was eight. And I hated this body. I hated the mention of sex. These books made me want to puke. Every time those men touched my body. I wanted death. But you...”

 

My vision is blurry from the build up of tears.

 

“You are not him. You are not them...”

 

He looks at me intently with red rimmed eyes for a moment. He wipes my tears away with his shirt sleeve then stands up with the manuscript in hand. Purses his lips and attempts to tear the pages of the book.

 

“That’s still a book!” I raise my hands to catch the book to stop him before even recognising why I was doing that in the first place.

 

“No, this is not a book. None of these are.” He snaches the pages away from my hands and tears them like a madman until they are just useless pieces of paper, then stomps on them in a rage.

 

And then he walks around the library. Dragging all the books from the shelves. All the books I was forced to read throughout my childhood, the better part of my youth. He shreds the manuscripts into pieces, tears the old parchments full of illustrations and spits on them. I follow him silently while his footsteps echo in the gigantic room.

 

I can hear him sniffling and the occasional desperate grunts when he tears down the invaluable texts. I know the whole entirety in this row costs a fortune.

 

I just look at him while he brings out a knife from his pocket and slices the valuable books one by one. Like a man possessed. He does not pay attention when his hand cuts in the blade. He brings down all the books, scattering their remains on the floor and throws the remaining inks over them. Hundreds of precious eroticas, Uncle's proudest possessions, worth a fortune now lies with torn pages and blood and ink stains over them. While a man destroys them in fury. His face is red, his golden hair disheveled. The faint sunlight streaming through the windows makes him look beautiful. A soldier on a mission. I stand in awe, in unknown while he throws away the knife and brings down the sword from the glass case someone gifted Uncle a long time ago. I watch him through teary eyes while the sharp blade of the sword slices the books into fragments, while he removes the evidence of darkness once in my life, bit by bit. I feel my entrapped soul breathing, smiling while he destroys the pieces of paper that fueled my great hatred towards them, that once defined my life. No one has ever cared for me before. No one has cared about my feelings to this extent, ever.

 

But there he is, still kicking at the useless chunks of paper, panting and smiling faintly like he just won a battle.

 

He told me everything. The son of a legendary thief, who would sew winter coats out of stolen purses, who never had a pair of warm socks or a pair of pants that fit him, who just drank water when there was nothing to eat anymore. Himself a thief, a pickpocket, a swindler.

 

The savior who came to tear my life apart and in the end didn't.

 

The love of my life. _My_ John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The library scene was one of my favourite scenes to write. I hope you guys like this chapter. Thank you for all the kind words. Only two chapters left. And I think it is getting clearer now. :D  
> As always, I will be waiting for your comments. <3


	15. The Tryst

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ********Trigger warning for attempted rape. Not between J and S. If you need me to tag more clearly, let me know.*******

It’s dark but I can see the moonlight reflecting on his hair, the iridescence makes the strands sparkle like they are made of the moonlight itself.

 

“Come on, hold my hand.” John smiles from the other side of the broken brick wall. It is short, not even as high as my chest. 

 

This wall has been a part of my life since I came to this house. It always represented my lack of freedom. It was higher than me once. I remember running my fingers over the rough surface; wondering what lay behind the mysterious wall and the array of trees.

 

“There is a monster living outside the perimeter. If you cross it, he will devour you alive.” Mrs. Turner told me all the time.

 

That got twelve year old me. I was so afraid of monsters. Monsters waiting with their bare teeth and claws. To eat me alive. To skin me while I die slowly. I could never escape.

 

Then one day, I could see behind it. It was just trees, many trees - no monsters in my sight. Maybe because the monsters didn’t live there, monsters lived beside me. They got me anyway. Skinned me alive, devoured me whole, stripped me of my existence and I was so scared of the outside world, if the people who were meant to take care of me didn't, what will the cruel, outside world do to me?

 

“I can’t. I… I never… I never went beyond that.” 

 

He smiles at me. Throws the two suitcases he is carrying in front of me and then leaps back to this side and arranges the suitcases as steps. He takes the bag from my hand and then extends the other one. Smiling softly.

 

My eyes prickle at the corner. I want to cry again. I want to cry for the rest of my life. I want to dip my nose into that hair glowing like the moon and be in peace.

 

He nods at me silently. Telling me to take his hand.

 

I do. And I climb my way over the stone boundary. I let the wind flow through my hair. I wait for some moments and let the last bit of hesitation wash away. Let it wash every tear, every moment of humility I had to endure. He lets go of my hand. I close my eyes and jump. 

 

No monsters anymore.

 

We run through the green field behind the trees, the wind tickles my ears, makes my eyes water. He laughs like a waterfall besides me and I laugh harder. At last. After all the years, at last. I broke the cage. Wrong. He came here to tighten the lock but broke the cage. I am free as a bird. Almost free. My chest aches in happiness when we wait for Moriarty to come with the small boat at the bank of the river. Johns hand on mine is a reminder, a soothing touch on my palms. He lets go off my hand as soon as the little boat comes into our sight.

 

“Suddenly, I am happy for every decision I ever took in my life.” He murmurs from my side. “Every breath I took, every rule I broke, everything I stole, every person I know, brought me to you.” 

 

My throat has a lump in it. I just want to kiss him by the riverside under the full moon.

 

“I love you.” 

 

I tell him, brushing my fingers against his. I want to hold his hand but I don’t want to give Jim, who is currently smiling at us, floating closer to us, any kind of suspicion. I am not supposed to hold my valet’s hand. Especially if I am sending him to his apparent death. 

 

“I have never stopped loving you.” He whispers and brushes past me to put our suitcases in the boat. 

  
  


**

 

“I have taken care of the letter, my friend.” 

 

Irene whispers, embracing me like I am her long lost love. We will have to put on a show nonetheless. Before, it was for John, now it is for Moriarty.

 

“Dress your Master up, Watson. Wedding is at midnight.” Jim gives me a toothy smile and vanishes inside his room.

 

Standing in the small, damp room of the inn I get undressed silently. John puts on layers of clothes one by one on me.

“Did he really think I am that much of a fool? That you will bring sets of your old clothes for me to wear and I won’t even notice?” He says buttoning up the best suit he brought for me to be married in. 

 

“He told me you are dumb and greedy and will be after my valuables at your first chance.” I chuckle. “He was right in a manner of speaking. You did go for the most valuable one.” 

 

Taking his hand in my own, I place it on my beating heart, beating faster at the touch of him but he is not looking at me. He has his face turned from me. Expression twisted and worried.

 

“John, look at me.” 

 

He shakes his head vigorously.

 

“What have I done, John? Look at me.” 

 

I hold his chin delicately and turn his face towards me. His eyes are glossy with tears. Tears waiting to fall at any moment.

 

“It’s nothing. It’s silly.” He removes my hand from his chin. Going back to buttoning up my waistcoat.

 

“However silly it is, you have to tell me.” 

 

His hands stop moving and he presses his palms onto my chest. Exhaling a heavy breath.

 

“I… I just wish I could take vows to protect you and love you in front of God. I know this marriage is a sham and we have to pretend and all the things and consequences and plans and paybacks and…” He takes a deep breath and looks at me fully. His eyes just dark in the mild light. I swear I can still see the blue.

 

“I don't understand complicated things, Sherlock. For once. I want… I don't know… I don't know what I want. I am going to say I want to claim you. I want to say to the world that you are mine.” He takes my hand and lays his cheek on my open palm then says closing his eyes. “That makes it horrible sounding, doesn't it?”

 

“I  _ am _ yours you know. In every sense of the word and the world. There is no other reality.” 

 

“God.” He closes his eyes. Still gripping the front of my coat. Knuckles white from clenching his fists too tightly. 

 

What can I give him now? At this moment. Except...

 

“Bring the ring Moriarty gave you, John.”

 

“The one for Irene? Why?”

 

“Do as I say, please.”

 

It should have been him. It should have been his finger the gold band was meant to be on. He draws a sharp breath when I slowly slide the ring on his little finger.

 

“I don't know if a borrowed ring negates the purpose but this is me claiming you as mine.” I say, kissing each knuckle on his hands. The only sound in the room is his quickened breath. “I never claimed anything in this world. Never felt the need.” I whisper into his palm, placing another kiss on it.

 

“I am honored.” He whispers. And rises onto his tiptoes to meet my mouth.

 

I place a dry kiss on his lips. 

 

“Don't let him be suspicious, Sherlock.” He says between my kisses on his face. “Act being in love, just as you would to fool me.”

 

Being in love, that won't be a problem. I already am.

 

**

 

Jim Moriarty is not terribly interested in the ceremony. He just blows his pipe in a cloud of smoke outside the church while I get married. I am not sure to whom.

 

“God, I loathe this part the most.” Irene murmurs not looking at me. When I slip the ring on her finger it looks so wrong in place. 

 

I glance at him and there he is sitting on the wooden bench with a face grim like the stones we saw in the river banks. Unmoving, unaffected by whatever is happening around them.

 

I say my vows to the unmoving stone. I hope he notices.

 

While I walk out of the door with Irene’s hand in mine, Jim hands me the little bottle of opium silently. My part of the bargain.

 

“I was wrong. I hate this part the most.” Irene lets out an exasperated sigh as she sits on the bed. “My wife is on the other side of this wall maybe looking at the stars and sighing.  On the other side, your beloved is looking at the wall. This is so unfortunate.”

 

I like her personality extremely. I kind of see myself in her. Not sure in which way, perhaps it’s the glimmer of love she has for her handmaiden that resonates most with me.

 

“You married her?”  

 

“Oh yes.” Her eyes glint in excitement. “I mean, not really a church approved marriage or by the laws of men. But we did it in our own way.” She smiles, looking fondly at the carpet.

 

I want to see John. I want to feel his lovely weight on my chest and his breath on my face. I want to feel calm.

 

“You should sleep, you know.” She looks up at me. “You look exhausted.” Her voice is warm and kind.

 

“I have lost the ability to sleep without him beside me, it’s become an intrinsic part of my routine. Also, I need to look sick and exhausted. Moriarty needs me to make John believe that I am getting sick. Can't make Moriarty suspicious by not even trying.”

 

“That settles it then, neither of us are sleeping.” She stands up. We can change into our night dresses at least. 

 

“Here. Have it.” 

 

She gives me a glass of water just after I have settled on the couch in my nightshirt. I didn't realize how dry my throat was before this. 

Has John eaten? Is he resting? Is he awake? Is he asleep? If I touch the wall, will I be able to feel him on the other side? I want to close my eyes and wake up and want to see this nightmare being over. Maybe him and me sitting by a fireplace with my head on his shoulder. I want to whisper to the wall right now.

 

I do nothing of the sort. Instead, I put the empty glass on the table and look at the woman sitting on the other side of the couch with a shawl around her. The fire in the fireplace crackles softly.

 

“How do you do it?”

 

“How do I do what?” Her face is free of the artificial colours of makeup. She looks more homely. Domesticated. 

 

“Tolerate the pain of not being able to tell the world ever about who you love?”

 

She smiles a painful smile.

 

“i just let my skin grow thicker.”

 

**

  
  


“I think I look mad enough. Don't I?” 

 

The dark shadows under my eyes and my disheveled hair and the fact that I am in such a state of constant anticipation is making me look mad enough.

 

“You do.” She says, brushing her thumb over my cheek. Her eyes are watery. She is unexpectedly full of compassion.

 

I hold the breakfast plate in my hand. John hates when I waste food, which is extremely reasonable. But this food needs to be wasted. I give her a smile and hold the plate higher in my hand. I let go.

 

The porcelain plate breaks with a shattering crash. Her false cries drown the smashing sound. I go on with my work. Mad. Mad. Act mad. Break everything you see. Channel your frustration through the act of madness.

 

I hear voices outside. Getting closer.

 

Two hands hold me to the floor. My first instinct is to wrap my hands around the body and bury my head into the neck but I can't. Moriarty is standing at the door with his sinister cloud of smoke. 

 

I see concern in the blue eyes in front of me. Don't be fooled, John. You know I am alright. 

 

“Let's play valet.”

 

Moriarty is not interested in my acting. I am doing well. So just after I put the coat on John, he leaves the room. Leaving the bitter smoke clouds of tobacco behind in his wake.

 

And as soon as his shadow leaves the threshold, I kiss John. I suck the breath out of him. God, I haven't kissed him and held him for so many hours. I might be bruising him. But I don't care. Anyone might be watching. I could care less. 

 

“What are you doing?!”

 

He looks around in a panic to see if anyone has witnessed the moment of intimacy.

 

“I am sorry.” 

 

My hands are trembling. I have stopped eating and that is taking quite a toll on me. At least it is making me look sickly. 

 

“Please… Play with me… No... Stay with me.” I bury my head in his chest. The unnatural angle makes my back hurt. But it is comforting, more comforting than ever.

 

“Shh. Shh. You are doing good. You are doing perfect, love.” He coos softly. Cradling me like a child. I usually hate when he acts like I am fragile. But I am not protesting now.

 

“Can you stay in the room with me?” I ask him while he tucks me gently in my bed.

 

“You are supposed to be mad. I am supposed to stay away from you. I am supposed to care less because I will be getting my share very soon.” The tip of a finger touches my lips tenderly. “I will be just at the opposite side of that wall. And I will not sleep.”

 

**

 

“He will be back soon, you know.” I say, kissing the top of the head nuzzling my chest. A patina of sweat over both of us. I had to muffle my screams while he made me reach the apex of pleasure, landing me in a moment of absolute calm as he followed behind.

 

“We could run away while he is not here.” John’s voice is muffled. “We could just grab a few things and run away before he comes back.”

 

“Do you remember what I told you John? He paid the innkeepers to keep an eye on us. They won’t bother with why you are in my room. But if we are sneaking out, that might be suspicious.”

 

He sighs into my chest. Warm breath over my pectoral muscle. 

 

“I am scared, Sherlock.” His arm around my waist tightens. I am still lost in bliss from what his hands and mouth had done to me just some moments ago. 

 

“Who says I am not?” I bury my face in the head full of golden hairs. “I am scared, John. Very much so. My palms are going cold. My feet going numb.”

 

“What if we cannot pull this off?” He is making small, soothing circles on my back. Making me melt from the touch.

 

“If something happens to you. I have the opium. If something starts happening to me. I will always have the opium.”

 

A shuffle on the bed, a movement of limbs, two warm lips find mine and I taste the bitter truth of salt water.

 

_ “He's more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.”  _

 

**

 

His jaw is stern when I am putting expensive clothes on him. Lips pressed into a thin line. My fingers tremble when I am putting my own ring on him. Making him Master Scott. I joke as if I am delirious. He laughs. Feels like nothing is wrong in the entire world for a moment. But then I hear horse carriages stopping outside and then Moriarty steps out of the room to greet the guests.

 

“I wish… I wish there was another way.” 

 

“Well there was. I would have ended up dead that way. Because you were just a selfish bastard in that possibility.”

 

“John.”

 

“Sorry. I am sorry… I am just. I almost wish sometimes that I had never taken this job,”

 

“John, I am sorry.”

 

“I have not completed my sentence yet.” He smiles at me. “But then I see the face of a beautiful man who made me want to take the risk of tricking the devil and then I thank God every day.”

 

I don’t say anything. I am bad at expressing how I feel. I am not used to this. I am not used to being the object of adoration. Or being worth of taking risks.

 

“I will never regret loving you. I will never regret anything which happened because of you.” His hand brushes my face. I should say something. But it is him who talks again.

 

“Keep faith in us.”

 

And then he is free from my embrace and gone.

 

The last time I get to touch him is when we are in the carriage. Taking him to the madhouse.

 

“Take care of him, please. He is so helpless. So unfortunate. All of this.”

 

My eyes are burning. I might cry. I want to. I avert my gaze when he looks at me. I know all of this is a ruse but I can’t look at him while they drag him from me. 

 

_ “I will act good. You will be mesmerized by how good I can make the impression of being surprised and angry.” He had told me the previous night, panting against my chest. _

 

He is keeping his words. It almost makes me laugh when he punches an orderly while they drag him inside. His eyes are burning too. Tears falling. 

 

Look at me, John. Look at me.

 

He listens to my silent prayer and looks at me. Eyes full of mock fury. Screaming “You Bastard!” at me. But I see what I see. I smile and mouth ‘I love you’ to him before the door closes with a heavy sound.

 

God, oh God, I am so scared.

 

But I have to act as well. Make Jim see how happy I am. Irene looks into my eyes and says nothing when I turn back and start walking towards the carriage.

 

“I am hungry. Can we go eat now?” I say nonchalantly when Jim sits opposite me and looks at me with glinting eyes.

 

“Yes. We are going to eat now.”

 

**

 

A fresh shower and a meal in the restaurant helps me clear my head and lets things sink in. What is John doing? They must have made him wear some ratted rags by now.

 

The gourmet meal feels like dirt and filth. What is he eating? Are they going to hit him? Torture him?

 

“Why aren’t you eating? You said you were hungry.” Jim says, cutting a piece of his lambchop.

 

“Not anymore.” I take a sip of the water. Irene and Kate had excused themselves long ago. Kate has a headache apparently.

 

I find Jim looking at me with an intense gaze. I have deciphered hundreds of gazes in my life, it is not hard to see what he has to say. Eyes are the mirrors to the soul. He is not trying to hide.

 

“I have something to tell you,” Jim says slowly, fiddling with the napkin on the table. I nod curtly in order for him to continue. “You know what? I have never considered bodily transport as a priority. Maybe because I have never been in the proximity of someone I like or perhaps they never attracted me like that.” He takes a pause. “But you, ever since I saw you, you are making me reconsider.”

 

“I wanted to keep this professional but you are not letting me. You don’t like the company of women, do you? That much I assumed. Neither do I.” His eyes are hopeful and lustful. My skin starts to crawl at the memory of being the object of lust for years. I am disgusted at my body again. More because John is not here to remind me that that was not me. Not my fault.

 

What will happen if I put this knife in between his eyes right now? This creature will be erased forever. But I don’t. I stub my toe in an attempt to keep the anger at bay and ask him calmly.

 

“What do you want Jim?”

 

“You. Please.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Because I am in love.”

 

“Love?” I chuckle at him. “What does a crook know about love?”

 

“He will tell you. Not here. In your room maybe? In an hour?” He smiles at me. His serpentine grin has me holding back a disgusted flinch. 

 

I never fail to understand men. Only one person was the exception. Jim is not.

  
  


**

 

A boy carries a wine bottle to my room. Exquisite. Jim has obviously cashed in most of the money already and started to spend.

 

Jim walks in after a few minutes. Just after I have poured the drink into the glasses.

 

“So, have you considered my proposal? We can live discreetly. You will not have to worry about being exposed anywhere. I can protect you. No one ever dares to raise their voice against me. They cannot find me and even if they do, they cannot even testify. That way we can live on both of our fortunes.” He takes the wine glass. “Isn’t it better than living on half?”

 

I control my breath. This has to be perfect. Unsuspicious. 

 

“I have come to a conclusion, Jim Moriarty.” I walk over to him. Towering over the smaller frame.

 

“I can spare a kiss.” I sip at my wine.

 

“That won’t do. I have never learned to stop halfway. And I am talking about a permanent solution to the final problem.” He puts his wine down and holds my hand in a tight grip. 

 

“Please, let me. Let me have ten minutes and I will show you.”

 

I can play. I have been playing my whole life. All my life. 

 

I empty my drink and take his glass in hand. 

 

“Go on. Show me what you can do.”

 

The bastard drags me down to kiss me on the lips. My whole body wants to reject his touch. His filthy lips on mine feel wrong. Soon. I will be out of this soon. 

 

People lose their ability to think when lust is overpowering them. So he doesn’t stop to challenge me when I offer the wine from my mouth. He drinks up greedily. Nibbling on my lips much to my disgust.

 

More wine. More kisses. And then he starts to undress me with trembling hands. 

 

God almighty, when will this stop?

 

“God, I will fuck you so much you will feel it up to your stomach, Wiliam. You will feel my thrusts up to your insides.” He shoves me onto the floor. Trying to pull my trousers down.

 

How long does it take? How long?

 

I struggle under his weight when he wraps himself around me. A panic rising in my chest suddenly. What if it doesn’t work? What if I end up abused by him on this floor? I start to tremble in fear and double my efforts to escape. 

 

“Don’t struggle, little bird. You know right.” He pants over me. Hooking his fingers on my waist band. “From all those books. Men or women feel the greatest pleasure when taken by force.” 

 

I cannot see anything but the wallpaper in front of me. His clammy fingers dipping inside my trousers. His sweaty palm trying to grip my thighs. I attempt to keep my breath steady. 

 

How long does it take? Five minutes? Ten?

 

Seven.

 

His hand falters. A low grunt comes from behind me. Grip loosening and then he slides sideways. Falling with a dull sound beside me on the carpet.

 

I take deep breaths. Trying to calm my heart. To let my mind know that I did not end up getting raped after all.

 

His trousers are down to his knees. His bare groin on display. I kick his face to make sure the deed is done. His face is slack. Body unmoving. Only the faint movement of his chest says he is alive.

 

Three drops will make you sleep a whole day. Five drops can knock out a horse. 

 

Irene will take care of the rest. Count Richard Brooke is not a wanted man. But Jim Moriarty is.

 

**

 

My heart is almost coming out of my throat when I arrive at the front of the house. I want to vomit on the foot path after the horse carriage leaves. A wooden door with a brass knocker, over it in brass plate is written 221b. I stand in front of it. Hesitating. At last I knock on the door and an old, kind faced lady opens the door with a smiling face. 

 

What if he is not...

 

“I am...”

 

“Sherlock. You are. I know” She completes my sentence and steps aside to make way for me.

“I am Mrs. Hudson. Let me get your coat. And you are expected upstairs.” She winks at me and gestures to the staircase.

 

I count seventeen. Seventeen wooden steps creaking under my feet. Taking me closer. 

 

The door is open and a man is cursing at himself while trying to keep the fireplace alive. I stand motionless with my luggage still in hand while he puts the fire poker in its place. He stands up, straightens himself and realizes the presence of another person in the room. 

 

I can see one of his eyes has swelled a little. But he shows no sign of discomfort. Instead a bright smile illuminates his face, much more vivid and blazing than the fire in the fireplace. And I hear in the voice that turns my legs into liquid, makes me want to fall to my knees in front of him and worship him for the rest of my life.

 

“Ah. There you are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would update yesterday but internet died. So here it is. I am actually extremely sad that this story is ending haha. One chapter to go. I will be waiting for your kind words. You are always kind to me. <3


	16. And the bliss that came after

When the daunting iron gate closes in front of my eyes, panic rises to my chest. In spite of knowing the whole situation, I am scared and on the verge of passing out because as soon as Sherlock, Irene and Moriarty vanished from my view, I was not entirely sure that our plan was neat enough.

 

“Stand up!” 

 

One of the orderlies’ boots hit my back. A sharp pain generates from the spot, making me fall forwards from where I was crouching and fidgeting under their relentless grip. The hostile play acting became real some time ago without me even realizing.

 

Pain is nothing. Nothing. I just have to wait. 

 

The stained, standardised uniform I’m wearing itches; not more than my mind though.

There is a dead cockroach in my soup.   
What am I doing? This is ridiculous. I stare at it and laugh at it first. Then I laugh a bit more. And then before I realize it, I am laughing more and more and throwing my soup bowl onto the floor. It rolls on the floor with a crash, splashing the unnamed contains of it and the cockroach onto the dirty floor  and stops just in front of an orderly.

 

One punch into my gut. One slap against my right cheek. I keep laughing, I’m becoming hysterical.  One punch to right side of my face. They hold me by my injured shoulder. It hurts so much that it feels like someone is continually stabbing me with red hot pokers.

 

_ ‘John, I am scared for you.’ _

_ ‘John, what if this doesn’t work?’  _

_ ‘John, what if we never meet again?’  _

_ ‘John, what if this is the end?’  _

_ ‘John, what if we both die?’  _

_ ‘John. John. John. John.’  _

_ All different sounding. Some clear, some breathy, some hushed. A lot of them whispered between trembling kisses. A lot said between tears and smiles. _

 

Anything for you, Sherlock. Anything for you.

 

I stay awake. There is no way in hell I am falling asleep in this place. My body is thrumming with energy as I wait patiently.

 

After midnight, there is a burning smell coming from somewhere near. I can’t stop smiling in the darkness. 

  
  


***

 

There is a dull sound, a muffled human scream. A different scream near me this time, a shallow thump and then cat like footsteps approaching. I know that gait, I know it like the back of my hand.

 

Someone fiddles with the locked door. I hold my breath although I am almost certain who is on the other side.

When the lock opens with a clunking sound, I involuntarily take few steps backward in case it isn’t who it seems.

 

“John!” 

 

Greg embraces me so tight that I struggle for air for a moment. The sigh of relief I let out is long overdue.

 

The backyard is still empty. Everyone is busy with putting the fire out. As we continuing sneaking out, I see the silhouette of Molly and some more familiar figures.

 

“Am I going back with you?” I ask, running besides them.

 

“No. You are going... to your home.” Molly says, trying to catch her breath.

 

“Home?” I am extremely puzzled. The adrenaline pumping through my blood is flooding my thoughts.

 

“Don’t worry, Mrs Hudson is cleaning it up. We can’t let him live with us in the slum. Go and wait for him.”

 

_ Him. _

 

**

 

The carriage leaves me in front of a door with a brass sign on it. Things were cleared up by Greg over the ride back to London. The house that stands before me belongs to my family. Mother bought it with her money. To be precise, with the money she stole and told Mrs. Hudson to promise that I will know about the house only if the need arises or when I am twenty five. Whichever comes first. 

 

As I walk into the entryway, Mrs. Hudson greets me with a glowing smile. She holds me and a few tears from both of us slip out, we’re finally free and safe. She shows me upstairs and I marvel at the flat. It is filled with a mix of eclectic items and homey furniture and I hardly wait for my love to return.

 

Waiting has never been so agonizing. Mrs. Hudson’s soothing words don’t help and I feel colder and more alone when she excuses herself downstairs.

 

I slowly explore the flat, my skin itches for him and I am starting to worry.

 

The first ray of sunshine enters the room, illuminating the dust particles in its path and he is still not here.

  
  


**

  
  


I entirely miss the sound of another person entering the room, too immersed in trying to make the God forsaken fireplace light. It just wouldn’t stay lit. At last it did. I turn around rubbing my hand on my trousers to remove the remaining flecks of dust off and when I look up, for a moment my heart misses its usual beat. And then it palpates more and more, an unsteady rhythm of blood rushing for entirely different reason. I smile in spite of the corner of my lips hurting like hell itself. He is standing on the threshold with a suitcase in his hand and looking at me all wide and doe eyed. 

 

How can he be that brave and also so fragile to look at? His mouth is slightly open; those perfect lips plump and I can see him breathing cautiously, his eyes quickly scanning my form and the room.

 

What can I do except extend my arms and welcome that wonderful creature?

 

I never forgot that I love him. But the moment he crosses the room with long strides and jumps into my arms, it reminds me once again how much in love I am.

 

His hat falls on the floor. His lips find mine with exact precision. The soft touches between lips becomes desperate and then along with the familiar taste of him, there is salt. He is crying.

 

We both slump down on the floor. The fatigue from the last couple of days suddenly coming back all together. I am so tired. So exhausted. I worried so much about everything. The possibility of not getting to the end as we wanted. But all is gone. Here is he at last.

 

“John, John, John, John.”

 

He repeats over and over again while embracing me in his huge arms. Then his dextrous  fingers are over me, searching, inspecting. Those lips peppering kisses wherever they can reach. It feels like home again. 

 

“They hit you didn’t they?” His voice is teary and his eyes filling up with gathered tears. “Where else?” 

 

“Nowhere that it matters.” I clutch the shaking body closer to me. Water now streaming down his beautiful face, making my shoulder wet. He clutches me like a motherless child and starts crying in front of my presence. Again. It warms the very depths of my soul knowing that he trusts himself to be so vulnerable with me. I hold him tightly against me, rocking him slowly and cooing soft declarations of love into his hair.

 

It was worth a wound. It was worth many wounds. It was worth trying to trick the devil and walk into hell itself. It was worth every pain, every betrayal, every path I ever took. For the man I found at the end of it. And by finding, I gave him a life he deserved. 

 

My love. My everything. My reason to live. My reason to breath again.

  
  


**

 

“Letter for Mr. Holmes!”

 

Little footsteps get closer and a little boy appears at the door with an envelope in hand.

 

Sherlock stands up to take the letter from Billy’s hand and tousles his hair in affection. Billy runs out as fast as he came into the room. His footsteps fade down the staircase.

 

“Who is it from?” I ask Sherlock, who is looking at the envelope with a hint of a smile on those lovely lips.

 

“There is no name on the envelope but...” He takes a whiff of the cream coloured envelope and extends his arms to me holding it. “You know who it is.”

 

The envelope smells like jasmine and that leaves one person .

 

He takes the envelope back from me and cuts it open with a paper knife. Then starts reading it with a neutral face.

 

_ Dear William,  _

_ You will always be William to me, no matter what you prefer now. It has been a week since I last saw your face and no new further news but I know for a fact that you are safe and sound with your beloved by your side. And that most of the things that were a burden for your new lives are gone now. I am happy for that. There was only one aspect left remaining. The sham marriage was actually quite well documented already because it was one of the most important aspects of Moriarty’s scheme. I am happy to let you know that it has been taken care of. You are not attached to me anymore. I was discreet because my own image was entwined to it. The marriage is gone in the wind . You are free as a bird now, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. _

_ I like the ring of that name. Suits you. I have to say in my life I have come across quite a number of men. But a mind like you have, never quite caught my eye before.  _

_ My best wishes for your beloved. Tell John he deserves you just as you deserve him. Maybe we can meet for a tea at my house? Or if you wish to leave any connection to your past life behind you, I won't mind. Even a little bit. So I will not be waiting for your answer. But if you choose to do so, you know where to find me. Kate sends her love. _

 

_ Yours faithfully, _

_ Irene Adler. _

 

Sherlock folds the letter neatly and looks up at me. A glint in his eyes and tiny drops of tears freckling his cheeks. 

 

Freedom at last. Freedom in all senses. It wasn't easy.

 

We always had a leverage in case Sherlock's uncle tried to get a hold of us. Before leaving the mansion, Sherlock retrieved the journal his uncle kept in the library in an impenetrable iron chest.

 

Not quite impenetrable to a skilled and seasoned thief. But I was never in the equation. I never counted.

 

But things did not get up to that point. It didn’t need to. No one knew the details of what happened but the story that got out was that the rich Colonel came home before his scheduled time and found his nephew missing. The coveted library was trashed beyond repair and people in the mansion said he was quite heartbroken. He went to sleep that night and never woke up. A servant found him the next morning in his bed. Face twisted in agony. No one knew what happened to him. His heart might have stopped at night. Sherlock was very thoughtful when the news reached us. I was practically jumping with joy while there was a smile on his face as well as a furrowed brow. 

 

“What is it, my love?” I asked him.

 

“It's just… my mind says there has to be some kind of poison involved in this. The symptoms definitely look like that and he couldn’t of just died in his sleep!”

 

That sounds like something Moriarty would do. But I don’t tell him that. I just laughed and told him how that doesn't matter anymore. Murder, natural death, who cares when the demon is gone? I would be happier if I got to kill him with my own hands. Seeing the light in his eyes die with my own eyes would have been a pleasure although I have never harmed any human physically. But he was not a human.

  
  


“No need for this disgusting document to exist then.” 

 

He had thrown the journal in the fireplace. The fire slowly engulfed the paper, the musing of a filthy soul. We watch it perish as the fire ignites each of the pages and consumes them with greed. Slowly, it is gone just as the man himself. I saw the fire reflecting in Sherlock’s pale eyes. Or was it the fire itself that was blazing within his eyes? We are both quiet, a soft closure surrounds us as I pull his body close to mine and we spend an indeterminable amount of time melded together in peace. 

  
  


So, what happened to Moriarty, you say?

 

No one ever had the courage to hand him over the law. If anyone ever had the courage, no one had the additional courage to testify against him. But Irene did both. She handed Moriarty to the law and was prepared to testify against him. I don’t know how Sherlock was able to encourage her to that extent but she was taking the risk. Perhaps, because of years and years of being emotionally tortured I think at last her patience broke.

 

But a testimony was never needed. Because the day Jim Moriarty was meant to be presented for trial, his lifeless body was hanging in his prison cell. Rumour has it that although it looked like he took his own life, he actually did not. Clear signs of struggle were present. Jim Moriarty ruined the lives of many people so he had it coming for him. Sooner or later. It was brushed away as a suicide. No one wasted any drops of tears or sympathy when he was gone at last.

 

Sherlock cried though. 

 

His head buried in my lap. His breath hitching with the intensity of his wailing. Demons were gone at last. The underlying freedom was overwhelming.  If Jim Moriarty was not dead, I think I would have hunted him down myself because he laid his hands on Sherlock. Sherlock had told me everything. We had never anticipated that part. If I had the chance I would rip him piece by piece, slowly and relishing each sound.

 

But all is past now. The last obstacle is gone and we are finally free. More free than we ever expected to be. Sherlock is going to sell the Holmes mansion and is going to use that money for a future. For us and the people who helped us reach here.

 

Sunlight is sipping through the curtain, illuminating his beautiful face. 

 

I look up at him and nudge him softly to wake him up from the trance like state he goes into when using his mind palace.

 

“You alright there, love?” I ask him, brushing my knuckles over his cheek. He leans into the touch and sighs.

 

“I feel liberated and it is too much all at once.”

 

I know what he is saying. I know. So I raise myself on my tiptoes and kiss that pout. He sighs again. His shoulders under my hands relaxes. And I kiss him until he is bending down and getting slack in my arms. Until my feet start to go numb from holding his whole weight.

 

“Oh. You are heavy!” I break the kiss with a tug at his lower lip.

 

“You are responsible for that. This agenda of yours is making me healthy and fat and everything.” Two serpent like hand wraps my waist and lifts me up. “See! What your agenda has resulted into?” He looks up at me with mischievous eyes. Crinkling in the corner with a childish smile.

 

“What do you think Mr. Sherlock Holmes? Should we celebrate this occasion of you being a bachelor again?” 

 

He sticks his tongue out for a second. Squinting his eyes in a motion of thinking. He looks like a child. So much younger. Happier. The healthy colours in his cheeks makes my heart warm. The wax like complexion which was once his permanent state is gone. I know I am responsible for that. At least partly. And that allows me to be a little smug about it.

 

“We can dance!” He drops me on the floor and walks over to the little gramophone we have resting on the table. He fiddles with it and a new kind of tune starts to play. I don’t have any knowledge about music. But this melody is calming.

  
  


We are dancing again. There is no comparison between the hall in Holmes Mansion and this little room in 221b. But this is more perfect that the hall could ever be. His bare feel clashes with mine. I kick him accidentally. It is not about the dance. It is not about any pretenses. This time it is all about being together. He laughs like the first rainfall, making my heart drench in pure unadulterated joy.

 

“I will make you a doctor, John!” He says in a pitch higher than usual, making both of us spin around the room.

 

“Me?” I laugh at this childish humour. Me, a slum dweller, who has only just learnt the alphabet after a month, a doctor?

 

“Why not? You are compassionate. You take care of people.”

 

“People. You mean you?’

 

“If you can take care of me, that makes you eligible to take care of anyone else in this world.” 

 

I laugh again at his ridiculousness. But I will say yes for now. It makes him happy. And there is nothing in the whole world that makes me happier than his smiling face.

 

“Okay, as you wish, My Lord. But what will you be?” I clutch him closer so I can feel his delicious warmth and smell what his body radiates.

 

“I will pursue science. Chemistry perhaps. Fascinating stuff.” His face is glowing.

 

“That settles it then.” I say smiling at him.

 

“And your husband.” He smiles showing his teeth. We have stopped dancing at some point. The record is still playing.

 

“In a sense you are. Aren’t you?” I tussle the wild curls falling on his forehead. This eccentric thing, this precious creature, what has a thief done all his life to deserve this love? I feel so unworthy sometimes.

 

“Am I worthy of having you?” I whisper.

 

“Yes, you are. And don’t make that face. If you don’t smile, it ruins every moment of my existence.” He tugs at my lips like a child. Such playful tugging makes me smile.

 

“Tell me something then, so I can smile.” 

 

His eyes suddenly have a new shine. And one corner of his lips quirk up. He holds my face with both of his hands. His long fingers brushing my face slowly and then he says in that voice; the voice which was wasted for years for the pleasure of people unworthy of hearing him. I am not worthy either. He says I am. So I have to believe him.

 

That voice rings like silk and honey in my ears.

 

_ “The fountains mingle with the river  _

_   And the rivers with the ocean,  _

_ The winds of heaven mix for ever  _

_   With a sweet emotion;  _

_ Nothing in the world is single;  _

_   All things by a law divine  _

_ In one spirit meet and mingle.  _

_   Why not I with thine?” _

 

My eyes prickle and threat to be teary at any moment. He places a chaste kiss on my mouth and continues.

 

_ “See the mountains kiss high heaven  _

_   And the waves clasp one another;  _

_ No sister-flower would be forgiven  _

_   If it disdained its brother;  _

_ And the sunlight clasps the earth  _

_   And the moonbeams kiss the sea:  _

_ What is all this sweet work worth  _

_   If thou kiss not me?” _

 

A cheeky smile spreads on his face.

 

“My, my, Sherlock, you are a romantic.” I say, twisting his curls lazily. My heart is beating steady.

 

“Who knew, John? Not me.”

 

The tears do fall down then. As does his. And we laugh together. Looking at each other’s eyes. Eyes. Or soul. I am not sure.

 

“Do you know how much I love you?” My question is not a question. Just a thought.

 

He nods his head. His cheeks flush pink. And he bows down to kiss me again.Tasting of tea, a little bit of honey and a lot of love.

 

Once, I wanted to leave London. Once, I never even thought of in my best dreams of falling in love. Once, I was destined to die. But none of those things happened in the end.

 

In the end, I am in love. I am still breathing the London air. It does not feel as filthy as it used to be. It is not as lonely as it was before. I have a man wrapped around me who gave me the reason of life. I used to go to the dock when I was younger. After a days deed I used to stand on the dock to see the sunset in the horizon. It felt oddly comfortable and conclusive. Didn't matter how much I made in a day. There was always the sun. Stable and regular. I eventually stopped going to the dock to watch the sunset. I didn't have time. It was childish. It lost the meaning. 

 

But now I am reminded of it again. That comfortable feeling of watching the sun. The stability. The feeling of conclusion. 

 

I can hear the people on the road. A thieves’ ears are sensitive. I can smell the aroma of freshly baked bread coming from somewhere. I have no one to control me anymore. I have no fear of my love getting harmed. He is here in my embrace. Safe around me. Breathing in me. Breathing in us. 

 

I see my reflection in his eyes. The dark pool inside giving my image back to me. I see the unsaid words. The promises and expectations. His sweet breath lingering over my face. His lips parted. I know what I will do now. I will let him lead me to our shared space where we will exchange everything we can. Warmth, souls, love, languid kisses, hushed declarations. We will whisper in the safe corner of our life how we love each other, how we live for each other. We will show each other affection in every way possible until we are nothing but one. Until there is nothing separating us. I will breathe in his scent and feel content. I will wake up and will be in love more than before. I know he will be too.

 

Like the dust settling on his violin by the window, or the abandoned teacups on the table. Everything is here to stay. I can feel it in my veins.

 

And at last in my life, I am proud of what I stole.

 

 

~THE END~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. Here it is. Done. Finish. Complete.
> 
> A little more than three months ago when I decided to start writing this fic, my estimate was that it will be 20k words max. Because all I have written prior this are one shots. My estimate sucks. I wrote down the chapters one by one and was extremely satisfied with myself but was also sure that no one will read it. Because I have no faith in my writing quality. Because for me an AU looked like a big risk. I was cursing myself in the middle of writing because it is a struggle to not write modern words. 
> 
> But the responses I got was more than I expected. Trust me when I say I did not imagine it even in my wildest dreams. It was fun writing. More fun at replying all the screaming comments.  
> Somewhere in the middle of writing I realized this is gonna be longer than I expected. And it is as you see. Almost 60k words. Unbelievable. Last time I wrote something this big was my post graduation thesis on sulphur bonds. 
> 
> I will request you now to watch “The Handmaiden”. The main inspiration for this fic. Such an aesthetically pleasing film. And also the soundtrack is one of my favourites. I listened to the soundtrack while writing this fic. It fits beautifully with the atmosphere. Here is a fun fact. In the original BBC miniseries, the mistress actually tricked the handmaiden. There was no double double cross. And the story was a bit different. This is why I prefer “The Handmaiden” version. The Handmaiden was released on 25th August, 2016. So it’s almost like one year anniversary of the film today.
> 
> I want to talk about a lot of things. But I don’t know what to say. Writing this fic made me confident so I will write more from now on. I am feeling sad actually. I became quite attached to this universe they are in. But all things has to end eventually. 
> 
> So again, thank you. Thank you Lou for all the flawless editing and for overall being patient with me. Thanks Luna for believing in me and reminding me to write. Thanks to all my friends who screamed at me after each update. Thanks everyone who commented on each chapter and encouraged me and waited patiently. Thanks for all the asks sent to my tumblr where you told me how much you love this fic. Thanks for every kudo you left. I owe you a lot.
> 
> Bye for now. Take care. Thanks for all the love.
> 
> Works cited in this chapter : Love's Philosophy by Percy Bysshe Shelley

**Author's Note:**

> I appreciate some comments and kudos. :)  
> Come say Hi to me in [tumblr](http://love-in-mind-palace.tumblr.com)  
> 


End file.
